I am staying in a Travelodge this week, as I am working away from home.
Many of you will be familiar with their concept of uniform, basic hotel rooms. I arrived on Sunday night, unpacking properly as I am here for a few days – up at 5am and back at 8pm. On Tuesday night, I returned and noticed a shoe on the floor. This would be a very boring story if it ended there, and so I will inject an element of mystery. Specifically, the shoe is not mine and was not there previously.
Why has a lone item of footwear appeared in my hotel room in my absence?
It is a question I have posed many of my colleagues, and there have been a handful of suggestions. A couple of references have been made to Cinderella, a comparison that seems to rely heavily on my resemblance to Prince Charming and therefore a theory we can quickly discount. I lack his banality and cannot imagine falling for someone based solely on physical appearance.
The possible calling-card of a serial killer, I was extremely wary of sliding back the shower curtain this morning in case I found a body lying in the bath. Thankfully my fear was unfounded. It did, admittedly, come as some relief to find that the shoe was still there when I woke up. Had it disappeared overnight, that would have truly freaked me out.
I checked with others staying here, on the off-chance we all received one – a novel, if odd, complimentary gift. Proof of the existence of some kind of shoe-fairy? Or could it be a subtle insult from the hotel staff? In the same way that handing someone a solitary screw can be a veiled way of telling them to “go screw themselves,” the implication here may be that I should “hop it.”
One of our drivers thinks the maid has probably come in, taken her shoes off, and had a short nap on my bed. Waking later than intended, and panicking, she has abandoned one of her shoes in favour of rapidly completing her allotted task. Deciding that she will return for it after finishing her shift, she then realises that she has forgotten which of the identical rooms contains it. The shoe remains for me to find. The obvious flaw, in this conjecture, is that – even with flat shoes – you are still immediately aware of how many are on your feet. Unless this branch has Pippi Longstocking on their roster, any normal person would sense their balance was out as soon as they took a few lopsided steps.
Was the shoe already here when I moved in?
I do not believe so. It is under the desk, between my laptop case and some plastic shopping bags I unpacked that first night. Had I noticed the shoe then, I would have placed these items with more care. “I had better not rest this on that shoe,” is the thought I expect to have occurred, and which did not.
“Have you got shoes of your own in the room?” asked my boss.
“Yes, my boots.”
“Were they both there? Maybe she left her shoe and took one of yours, and will be back for the other tomorrow.”
“It seems unlikely that a woman with size two feet has opted to wear one of her own slip-ons and one of my heavy, size ten, calf-high New Rock boots with two-inch soles and metal detailing.”
Nobody has been able to shed any light on it, and not just because it resides in the darkness found under a desk. Tonight, we asked the receptionist if she had any explanation, but she just looked at her own feet and confirmed that she was wearing both of hers. My real concern now is that somebody has planted it, in advance of framing me for something.
The receptionist, incidentally, was accompanying us as my card no longer opens the door. Letting me in, she explained that the battery has died, and it should be fixed tomorrow. Between something materialising and electronics failing, this feels less like a short working holiday and more like the conceited foreshadowing in some B-movie horror film.
[Update: the lock is still broken. They said they would move me to another room, but I am scared the shoe will follow me there. Also, I am about to check out anyway.]
If you have any ideas as to how this occurrence can be rationally explained, I will be very happy to give them due consideration.