Last Saturday week, Husband lost my walking boot.
There was room for doubt as to who was guilty of gross negligence, but I tricked Husband into a full confession. No need for electrodes or a waterboard; I am a cunning and resourceful woman crammed full of my mother’s mother’s genes. Oh, he denies it now. But it is futile.
Now, you might ask, how do you lose a single boot? Indeed, that’s a good question and have you ever considered a career in politics or the diplomatic corps?
The last time anyone saw my left boot was in the back of the MR2 the morning we set out for Karekare. Sometime between the hours of 10am and 2pm between the days of Saturday and Wednesday, my boot exited the boot (the arse-end of the car).
Now, I seriously doubt my walking boot FELL out of the car, because that would have involved ignoring gravity to topple 3ft up and over the lip of the boot. Similarly, I doubt it leapt out in an explosive discharge of surplus kinetic energy.
More likely, the fury of Husband’s rummaging fired it out of the car like a deadly projectile. However, there are no witnesses or corpses bearing the imprint of a size 38 footprint on the forehead to corroborate this.
What makes it Husband’s fault is that, upon returning home, he removed the one, single boot from the car and placed it on the shoe shelf. Who removes a single boot without wondering where its companion is? Who?
Ok, we all know the answer to that.
When I discovered the missing boot later in the week, I asked Husband why he hadn’t remarked upon it. And he said, “I thought you had the other one.”
As if he thought I might have just wanted to take my right leg out for a walk.
We drove back to Karekare in the vain hope that we could track down my boot, or that someone had handed it in to the surf club.
Husband volunteered to conduct a scatter pattern search while I enquired at the surf club. Husband has a remarkable ability for search and rescue – if the man had a better sense of smell, he could probably find Elvis – while I have a talent for shallow charm that is highly effective on a superficial level. I felt this was a fair division of duty, until I accosted one of the lifeguards taming a wave.
He himself had not sighted my boot, and offered to radio the surf club to see whether someone had handed it in. It took him five goes before he could say ‘Lady here wants to know if someone handed in a boot last Saturday’ without sniggering.
The woman on the other end of the radio said, ‘A BOOT?’ Then indulged in a minute or two of muted snorting.
“What sort of boot?” she said.
“Er, a left boot.”
Then they rolled around the place laughing. They’re probably sleeping together. I really feel they should keep their sexual tension out of the workplace.
Nobody had handed in my boot – or, for that matter, anyone else’s – and Husband’s search was fruitless, which means the boot has probably left the country