Slipping into Dotage

It's happened.

Slippers have found their way onto my feet. That in itself is not the tragedy. The tragedy exists in the fact that I don't want to take them off and would even answer the door in them. Not just answer the door, I danced out to the letterbox in them.
Worryingly, if I hadn't been in my pyjamas I could've danced all the way to the moon. But even space isn't ready for me in my sheepskins and flannelettes.
I'd like to think they were those little 'cocktaily' slippers with the kitten heel. Mine, however, have nothing to do with cats, my comfort is sought through the unhappy demise of a perhaps once happy sheep (citizenship unknown). It is not wise to dwell on the fate of the cosier. My rationale here is that the sheep had long since digested its last blade of grass before I stumbled across them in K-Mart. And I paid full price. It did not die in vain gasping at the bottom of the bargin bin.
It died for a good cause. Mine. Anyway, I can hardly choke on guilt when I have no such guilt trips when eating the Sunday roast.

How would the conversation go? I can't even begin to think of an opening gambit. I can only imagine it in a Dickensian novel, the Sheepskin Carol. How I'd greet a woolley apparition belongs cheerfully in nightmares. I wonder if my feet, size 10 (on a good day) ever featured in the sheep's nightmare?
Speaking of which, if we count sheep to lull us to nigh-nigh... what do sheep count? I can think of nothing pastoral and calming that would befit the sweet dreams of a sheep. Perhaps bales of hale and new grass blades blowing in the breeze.
But I digress. My feet are warm and I am content in their snugness. Sadly, I have not given them much thought in my youth as I shovelled them into shoes fit for tiny, pointy feet.
I think it's official, I am a spinster. Which only begs the question, can a divorcee become a spinster? I'll sleep on it and in them.