The Phantom Shoe Stealer

The Missing Shoe

 Returning home after lunch with friends, I placed my shoes on the rack then noticed one of my other shoes was missing. Ever since Sam built our purpose-designed shoe rack, we have meticulously kept the shoes neatly arranged, rather than piled higgledy-piggledy, so I noticed the gap immediately.

I know I wore the blue pair this morning taking the dog for a walk and replaced them on the shelf as I got back to put on my slippers. I am even certain they were there as a pair when I took the blue and white lace-ups to go out for dinner. But coming back I am faced with an empty gap. Neither Annie nor I can logically deduce where it has gone. We have diligently searched every room in the house. I certainly don't remember hobbling round in one shoe at any stage, or in bare socks; indeed, it is a cliche that single socks often go missing, but how often do we complain of a missing shoe? The last time was years ago in Lyme Regis, when we walked along the foot of the Jurassic Coast and Annie lost one shoe in the deep mud which sucked it off and swallowed it. But we knew where it was - only that we couldn't retrieve it, so she hobbled into a gimmicky sea-front store to buy a plastic pair of sandals for the walk back to the car.

No, this disappearance is on a different scale. I considered the possibility of a one-legged burglar, but in that case why not steal all the right shoes? Annie reminded me that we had had one visitor before we went out: the Ocado delivery man, who carried the bags into the house; but he definitely had two legs. Perhaps he had a one-legged brother who was short of a shoe? Unlikely, plus I escorted him out through the door without spotting a secreted shoe in his pocket. Ann thinks it may have been carried out mixed with rubbish, but the bins were emptied this morning so I cannot check that theory. No, much though I don't believe in the occult, it seems the only explanation now is a shoe-stealing poltergeist. I shall watch the other pairs very carefully.