Slippers

I have commandeered Marla’s slippers.

She had four pairs

lined up neatly under the stairs –

tatty but tidy.

So I’ve taken the brown ones

with the fur inside

and wear them in the house

instead of my trainers.

At home Dad didn’t like

slippers

or pyjamas

or anything that looked like

bedtime

wandering around during the day.

He said it made people look unemployed.

Marla points at my feet.

Aren’t those mine?

The hairy ankles?

No. They’re mine.

You can touch them if you like.

The slippers, she says,

grinning at the joke.

Oh yes, they’re yours.

Well, I hope your feet are clean.

Not that mine were last time I wore them!