Sod’s law

The slippers get the worst of it. Every time he has a prolonged coughing fit, they end up covered in vomit, even when I am poised with a bowl trying to ensure the worst of it stays off his clothes or sleep-bag.

My aching, arthritic feet make shoes off limits so I survey the slippers with dismay. They’ve been washed daily for the last seven days just to be puked on again so I give up and, hoping no-one comes unexpectedly to the house, I wear them regardless. But after three days even I can no longer tolerate the sight of them. I return them to their familiar home of the washing machine, dry them hurriedly and slip my painful feet blissfully back into their clean warmth.

Then I open the fridge and a large pot of plain yoghurt falls in slow motion onto the floor.

Via, of course, my slippers.