Shoe wars.

I went down to auntie Pauls in sunny Dorset last weekend. My dad rents the cottage opposite her, His wife, Anna , My Bro & family and my cousins all turn up and everyone gets good and drunk. Not a bad weekend apart from the fact that I have to share a bedroom with my brothers three kids. There is something very disturbing about a little girl who sleeps sitting up with her eyes open. Add the fact that the eldest lad seems to think its just polite to wake me and inform me that he's off to the loo, getting a glass of water, going to play with the kitchen knives or whatever. Finally the youngest lad falls out of bed about once an hour and whimpers until I get up and put him back. And I'm not good without a full nights kip. So kids, THERE IS NO LAW THAT SAYS YOU MUST BE OUT OF BED BY 7 and despite what you idiot father has told you, Uncle Rich's favorite way of waking up is NOT having small children use his belly as a trampoline.
Anyway, I'm driving home. Well, I'm sitting in the vast carpark that was once the M5. And I notice a strange plastic binbag in my passenger footwell. Shoes. Old shoes. Some how I have become collateral damage in the on going shoe war between my brother and my cousin. Unfortunately for them both I have been stockpiling shoes (for defensive purposes only) and have a fully automated mutually assured destruction shoe aggression retaliation program in place. Phil, Bev, prepare for shoe Armageddon.