So, there we were, Merimbula Main Beach, hand in hand, watching the dog attempt to dig to China and vying for more attention by trying to get between us. Watching as the peach tones of the sunset fell over the twinkling start-up lights of Pambula. Seeing the colour of the sky turn the sea to a rose hue, while holiday makes made the most of the last light.
What happened next was simply un-Australian.
Someone. Stole. Our. Thongs.
Kidnapped from their safe nest at the top of the path where gravel turns to soft sand, where thongs are designed to be kicked off and added to a colourful melee of cheap rubber. Gone. An assault on the etiquette of coastal living!
So with stubbed toes and gravel indented feet, we hobbled to the car. Incredulous that this could happen! Floored it from the parking lot, driving through Fishpen, necks craning and leering at any couple whose feet vaguely resembled the size of our own. Judgmentally focusing on the occupants of parked Wicked campers. When actually anyone was fair game.
How could this happen? My feet had indented those thongs over years of wear, like a fingerprint! Like memory foam! Only my feet could fit those grooves. A veritable salty-haired, sand-blown Cinderella.
And then, ‘Babe, I don’t mean to alarm you, but we are about to run out of petrol.’ Evidently the day could get worse.
But in a somewhat romantic/apologetic gesture, ‘the man’ bought me a new pair of thongs. But they will never be the same. For they will take years to break in.
So, guard your thongs this Summer, people. Or padlock them to the fence at the top of the beach path. This is not extreme behaviour, as the world is changing, and a good pair of thongs are worth their flimsy weight in gold.
