The door of the wardrobe is ajar, just as Eric had left it. Shirts and trousers hang neatly from the rails, numerous pairs of socks cling together in balls on the top shelf, while the dark brown shoes, size 7, sit side by side on the wardrobe floor. Sunshine from the bedroom window casts a chink of light on the open wardrobe.

​

The right shoe looks sideways to the left shoe, winks through his eye-hole and, careful not to scuff his precious brown leather, nudges the wardrobe door open a few centimetres more. As he pushes, the hinges of the wardrobe let out an imperceptible squeak and the door swings casually open. The right shoe blinks as the light streams in.

​

He steps down on to the fleshy pile of carpet and wallows in its luxuriousness, his brown leather sheen now shimmering in the full light of the day.

“Come on down, Leftie. The price is right!” he calls to the left shoe, which is still sitting motionless in the wardrobe. He chuckles at his joke.

“Is it safe?” whispers Leftie, ignoring his partner’s pathetic attempt at humour. Hesitating at the door, he looks one way and then the other. “Is anyone coming, Rightie?”

“Of course not, they’ve both gone out,” replies Rightie. “Look, he’s made sure the bedroom door’s open. Time to be on our way.”

Leftie nervously steps out of the wardrobe.

“Careful now, mind your laces,” says Rightie, “you don’t want to trip over yourself, do you?”

“Trip myself up? Of course I won’t,” pooh-poohs Leftie. “Aren’t I the one always telling you to watch out where you’re going?”

Together, they saunter towards the bedroom door and Rightie peeks a toe-cap outside. He glances towards the landing. “The coast’s clear, come on, this way,” he says and he heads for the stairs.

But Leftie holds back. “I don’t like this. It’s dangerous down those stairs by ourselves. Do we have to, Rightie? Why can’t we just go to the bathroom and back instead?”

“Why not? I’ll tell you why not. Because it’s not part of the plan. Didn’t you listen to what he said? Anyway, what is it with you? Where’s your sense of adventure?” Ignoring Leftie’s protestations, Rightie continues on his way.

“Come back, wait for me,” shouts Leftie. “Don’t leave me. You know we always go everywhere together. I get lonely without you.”

But Rightie isn’t listening. He stands on the top step of the stairs, looks down and starts his descent. But as he does so, he stumbles and - sin-of-all-sins - he treads on his own untied shoe-lace and unceremoniously trips toecap-over-heel, down to the bottom of the stairs where he lands with a thud against the hall-stand. And there he lies, mute and immobile, his scuffed sole facing the ceiling, as helpless as an overturned crab.

Leftie stares down. This isn’t part of the plan. But it’s a long way to hop all by himself down to the bottom of the stairs. What is he to do? Without Rightie, it’s almost impossible. But at least he’ll try. Rightie’s accusations about lack of adventure have stung him into action.

“I’ll show him,” he mutters to himself, dropping gently on to the first step of the stair, determined to get to the bottom.

But then he hears a noise. A key is rattling in the front door. Leftie freezes. The master and mistress are back.

“What’s this shoe doing here, Eric?” It’s the mistress, booming like a tannoy on full volume and pointing at the brown shoe lying upside down at the foot of the stairs. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times to put your shoes away and not leave them lying around the house.”

Eric stares at the shoe. “But, but, but …” he stutters.

“Don’t you ‘but-but-but’ me, Eric Stepney. We’ve been married long enough for you to know the rules by now. You are, without doubt, the most indolent and untidy man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. If only I’d listened to my mother. Why I ever married you, I don’t know.” She glares at Eric and then something catches her eye at the top of the stairs. “And look, there’s the other one. If I hadn’t seen them, I might’ve tripped over them and done myself an nasty injury. For heaven’s sake, Eric, pick them up this instant and put them back in your wardrobe. I tell you, you’ll be the death of me.”

Without so much as a ‘Yes, my dearest’, Eric bends down, picks up the right shoe lying by the hall-stand, climbs the stairs and retrieves the left shoe lying at the top. Holding one in each hand, he takes them into the bedroom.

He opens the wardrobe door, bends down and replaces the shoes side-by-side in the bottom, just as he’d left them.

“I’ll give you a good polish tomorrow boys,” he says, patting each shoe in turn. “You deserve it. It was a good effort. Don’t worry. She’ll fall over you one of these days and break her neck. Let’s try it again tomorrow. Okay?”

And he blows them a kiss as he gently closes the wardrobe door.