Thong Song

We’re back from New Zealand without falling into a pool of seething volcanic mud, suffering inverted intestines from bungee jumping, or being eaten by orcs. Leaving Australia for the first time since I arrived four years ago provided no great insights, though it is remarkable how differently the two countries turned out. One could possibly make some remarks about the quality of the gene pool of the original settlers, but one won’t.

I was glad that when we flew back into Coffs Harbour, after a week travelling around the splendours of the North Island, I still thought it was a beautiful place and Sandy Beach looked even better. It makes coming home much easier.

What did give me pause for thought was breaking my thongs (trans: flip-flops) on the way back from the beach the other day. I’d bought them when I first came out here and they were nicely worn into the shape of my feet. They’re ideal for going back and fore to the beach and are a ubiquitous article of footware. Throwing them out and buying a new pair seemed like a rite of passage, like condemning our first barbecue, which we also did recently.