Raptus Regaliter

I have a problem with shoes.

Not myshoes. Her Maj's shoes. You see, Her Maj always has at least three sets of shoes strewn round the bed - the shoes she wore to the office, the shoes she uses if she goes outside, and the comfy shoes for indoor use - minimal. These shoes are usually arranged in such a way that, should anyone attempt to sneak into the bedroom at night, with the light off, attempting to make the minimum of noise, they will encounter at least one of these shoes, and, as they have removed their shoes to avoid waking the sleeping occupant of this room, they will invariably tread on the most painful shoe. The one with the big buckle, or the one with the stiletto heel that is poking upward. The noise generated by this invariably wakes the occupant of the bed, who will then start moaning about being awoken.

What is even worse with this state of affairs is that these shoes are also in the way, if, for example, an occupant of the bed suddenly feels the urge to empty a certain receptacle in the wee (so to speak) hours of the night. This is even worse, as the occupant is only semi-conscious, consciousness having been restored to the minimum amount required to find a porcelain receptacle and relieve oneself. It goes without saying, then, that this level of consciousness is not enough to evaded upturned stillettoes, or great big leather boots with clumpy wooden soles. However, a level of consciousness prerequisite to deal with these is rapidly summoned, once one of the clumpier items of footwear have been accidentally kicked against the hollow plywood bedroom door, which booms like a kick drum upon impact, awaking the other occupant of the bed, and inspiring a rapid lesson in some of the more obscene concepts in modern german.

I know why she does it. I've worked it out. In the days when men and their mates lived in caves, the womenfolk needed some way of protecting themselves whilst left alone, by habitually scattering sharp objects around their sleeping-place. Should some wild animal, or, heaven forbid, enemy caveman, attempt to sneak up on the womenfolk they would soon alert them to the danger by standing on the sharp objects. It goes without saying that although the danger is long past, they continue to do it, just as a dog turns round to tread down the grass, when sitting down, from the plains its ancestors once occupied.

One of these days I'm going to buy a whippet with an extremely cold nose, and train it to wake Her Maj by sticking it on the most temperature-sensitive part of her anatomy when it wants to go to the toilet at three in the morning. She'll soon stop strewing the shoes round after that.