Please Wipe Your Feet

Date: 1/3/2026

I’ve been invited on a night out. Invited is generous. Cornered feels more accurate. I say yes, though every sensible cell in my body votes no. I don’t know why I do this to myself. I would rather be at home, cocooned in elasticated waistbands and silence, watching something where nobody shouts over music or spills drinks on my shoes. But here I am instead — nearly forty, zipped into a party dress that belongs to a former version of me I barely recognise. I hover at the edge of the group like a socially displaced shadow — here, but entirely optional. Fake smile in place. Spine tense. We crawl from one pub to the next, a migrating herd of reckless youth and loosened inhibitions. I am neither. Then I spot a familiar face. A small, private cheer hits me. “Laura!” I beam. “Happy birthday!” Her face creases. Time slows. I immediately begin writing my own apology letter in my head. “It is your birthday, isn’t it?” I add, voice shrinking. A pause. Then — salvation. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s my birthday.” Thank God. She hugs me. Or rather, a cardboard approximation of her hugs me. There’s no warmth. No weight. Like embracing a life-sized cutout of a person who once knew me. Still, I cling to the interaction. Proof of life. Proof of belonging. She makes her excuses and disappears into the crowd, swallowed whole. I don’t follow. I never follow. The next thing I know — and I suspect alcohol is involved — I’m sitting in someone’s house. I don’t know whose. The lighting is wrong. Too bright. Too garish. Every surface feels exposed. Beside me sits a woman who looks like life has taken her aside and dealt with her privately, repeatedly, using a blunt instrument. She tells me her story without prompting. Kids taken. Home lost. Sofa surfing. No plan. No map. Track marks up her arms telling their own story. I listen. I really do. I want to be kind. I want to be the person who can hold all of this without flinching. But her breath. It is catastrophic. A smell so violent it feels intentional. Ancient. Weaponised. It creeps into my nostrils and sets up camp. She leans closer. I lean away. She leans again. I try breathing through my mouth. Worse. So much worse. She needs compassion. A soft place to land. A hug. A saint. What she gets is me. “Your breath really stinks,” I say. The words leap out like traitors. She springs up as if I’ve thrown boiling water at her and runs, sobbing, into another room. “What happened?” her friend asks. “Is she okay?” I consider the question. Will she be okay? Someone this dismantled? A life unravelled until there’s barely a thread left to pull? “She just needs time to figure out who she is,” I say carefully. Then, because I am apparently committed to self-destruction, I add, “And perhaps… see a hygienist?” His eyes widen. “Oh. The breath. Yeah. She’s been stinking out my place, man.” The moment sinks into the sofa cushions, absorbed by shame. My phone vibrates. Again. And again. Graham. Workplace coach. Turkey teeth Graham. The messages stack up like demands dressed up as invitations. Let’s talk growth. Let’s align. Mandatory but friendly. I cave. Of course I do. The coaching session is at a pub. Naturally. Graham lives here. Or at least haunts it. “Amanda!” he booms. “Did you bring your tortoise shell?” “My what?” He sighs. “You didn’t read my messages.” “No,” I admit, looking down at my shoes. “The first rule of Ninja Club is you bring your tortoise shell.” “Where am I meant to get a tortoise shell?” He looks at me like I’m slow. “From a tortoise.” “Surely that’s against animal rights?” He laughs — a teeth-protruding, aggressively enthusiastic laugh. Too many teeth. Too white. Like if I stepped too close, he could gobble me whole. He gestures around the bar. A grown man is spinning on the floor atop an actual shell, cheered on by people who should know better. “What are you drinking, Mand?” “Nothing,” I say. “I’ve got better places to be.” The words land harder than intended. He deflates. A punctured balloon trapped inside a shell. Speaking of better places — I’m suddenly at my old wedding venue. Rumwell Manor. A ghost with chandeliers. We’re having a fifteen-year reunion. Celebration is implied. I check my surroundings. I have invited friends — a word I use loosely now, after losing so many over the years. The adults. The people who stood the test of time. Not one of them has come. Only children. Wild. Unregulated. Unfamiliar. One hands me my wedding memory book. I open it, smiling, bracing for nostalgia. Crayons. Every page defaced with scribbles. Nonsense. Stick figures. Teeth. Chaos. My beautiful day reduced to infantile graffiti. Then they want me to pull them. On a wooden cart. Like a horse. And because I am me, I do it. I haul them downhill, legs burning, spine screaming, children shrieking with delight. “Neigh!” they demand. “No,” I say. “Absolutely not.” I have to draw a moral line somewhere. Ash’s teenage son waits at the bottom of the hill, arms folded, fixing me with a look that could skin me alive — over a sandwich. “You promised me a Morrisons Meal Deal,” he says. I don’t remember this promise. But I remember fear. I order it. Uber Eats arrives instantly, delivered by an ancient man on a moped who looks one delivery away from kicking the bucket. The boy hates beef. Throws it on the ground. Stamps on it. The scene disintegrates into the faint, tragic squish of a crushed sandwich. Now I’m on holiday with my mother-in-law. Lesley. Sweet privileges. Two grumpy boys in tow. The place is small and crawling with things that know the walls better than we do. Antennae twitch. Legs skitter. They rule the place and they know it. “This is where we took the kids when they were younger,” Lesley says brightly. “So many happy memories.” She keeps folding out Persian-style rugs across the floor. One after another. Heavy. Ornate. Worn thin in places. “A homely touch,” she adds, smoothing the corners flat. I watch her hands press them down. Pat. Press. Flatten. The way you calm something that won’t stay put. I don’t know who she’s trying to convince, but it isn’t me. I drift towards the window, cataloguing exits. Fire escape. Drainpipe. A leap of faith. Anything. The rugs keep multiplying behind me, covering stains, cracks, things best left unseen. That’s when it clicks. The house. The pubs. The sofa. The shell. The cart. The wedding book. The floor beneath every scene. I’ve been laid down quietly, politely, again and again. Something soft enough to tread on. Something absorbent. Something decorative until it frays. I haven’t been invited anywhere tonight. I’ve been placed. Used to soak up mess. To soften sharp edges. To stop others feeling the cold beneath their feet. And when I start to smell, or thin, or show wear — I’m folded, replaced, politely ignored. Lesley lays down one final rug. It’s threadbare. Familiar. It’s me. I lie very still. Rugs don’t move. Rugs don’t speak. Rugs don’t ask for more. They exist to be stepped over, not thanked. But I do wonder — not for the first time — what would happen if I simply rolled myself up. Just once. Rolled myself tight. Edges tucked in. And quietly, without fuss or permission, rolled away.