All was going well this morning. Until the mobile rang.
I had written around 800 words or so on two of my main characters – a football coach and a young boy on his team – when I saw my wife’s number coming up. It was 8.10am, by which time my wife would usually be out of the house and walking to school with the kids. Obviously, something was up. Tantrums? Fights? Uniforms in the wash? No, it was the case of the missing shoes. A case, no doubt, fit for Sherlock Holmes.
The little missus’ school shoes were nowhere to be found. Parents among you are all too familiar with the scenario: the battle against Father Time to try and get to school on time and something, out of leftfield, happens. It is the ideal moment for the mischievous Gods of fate to throw the dice and, suddenly, school shoes vanish.
I was asked to search the car on the off chance they were there. They were not. My wife had to throw runners on the little missus, scramble down a note for the teacher and run for the bus.
It’s not the first case of the missing shoes. Our son’s runners disappeared a while ago, and have not turned up since.
I ended up with 1k words in total and thought a small bit about my next chapter. It’s funny as you do this you remember a host of small and not so small things that need to be done, like suddenly realising an earlier chapter was abruptly abandoned and that you also had to do this and do that, before you did the next thing. Still and all, happy enough. If only Holmes could find those wretched shoes.