I just had an amazingly undignified fight with a shoe rack.
It all started amicably enough. Yesterday, I noticed that our guests simply fling off their shoes in our hallway, where they lie, perfectly positioned to trip people over. (Particularly those people who are entering the hallway still telling the end of an extremely amusing story, but I think its a pretty widespread problem). ‘I am buying a shoe rack,’ I announced grandly this morning to my uninterested housemates. ‘I am buying a shoe rack today.’
Being a person of my word, I did, in fact buy a shoe rack.
It came in 6 pieces. Two long slats, and 4 little proppy-uppy things that hold them together (and apart, but at this moment I was still happy with the shoe rack, and unaware of its hidden sinister properties). ‘This will be so easy,’ I thought to myself smugly. ‘I won’t even bother thinking about lunch until I’ve chucked it up. Then I can have a ploughmans and really deserve it.’
I’m starving, the bloody thing won’t stick together unless I hold it with my hands (which, although effective, is less practical than I would have liked), and I’ve grazed my foot on its sharp and unforgiving corners.
Yesterday, I thought I could not hate anything more than a rogue trippy-up shoe. Today, I have met its meaner, more pernicious cousin. In future, all house guests will simply have to arrive barefoot.