Flip-Flop Butchery...

I had never considered myself the type of human being that wears flip-flops. For a multitude of reasons - each and every one of which so depressingly dull that it would lose me my one blog subscriber if I aired them here (you know who you are...) - I have never strayed from the safe haven provided by sandals. There is something immensely comforting and reassuring in having your foot strapped snugly within a sandal. Not for me this crazy foot-half-off-edge-of-flip-flop flying by the seat of your pants attitude to life. I used to positively shiver at the boldness of these sartorial buccaneers whenever I encountered them (ie any Australian on the Fulham Palace Road in mid-December). Brrr.

Until now.

My previous sandals having self-destructed in Tijuana (RIP dear friends, may your soles rest in heaven) and the sands of time having trickled too fast between holidays (it's a hard life I lead), I found myself on a sandy beach in Monterosso on the Italian Riviera sporting Converse trainers and socks in 26c heat. A social faux pas in any self-respecting country, I was committing this heinous crime in the very home of fashion! With conditions within my shoes rapidly approaching heating levels of vegetable-steaming proportions, this was a moment for boldness, for grasping the bull by the horns. Influenced by the plastic staccato sound of my three travel buddies' footfall and faced with no justifiable alternatives (anyone for Crocs?), I finally gave in. For the princely sum of 8,00€, I became the proud owner of a pair of black dragon red Diadora flip-flops, rapidly becoming the proud owner of a pair of black dragon-less faded pink Diadora flip-flops (lawsuit in progress, stay tuned for details).

Beaming with unbridled happiness, I opened with much enthusiasm and very little panache this new chapter in my life. To say I had a certain swagger about me would be misleading, it was more of an awkward stagger as I struggled to replicate the near-perfect sound of my friends' echoing footwear. But I was happy.

The word 'shortlived' regrettably follows 'my happiness was' on a relatively frequent basis and this was to be no exception. It rapidly became clear to me that my glorious zenith would mirror that of the sun in its daily brevity. The blazing sunshine, crystal-clear waters and stunning scenery could not distract me from the fact that my new footwear was achieving an all-too-swift transition from the world of looking-tsss-hot-in-new-funky-beach-accessory to the world of incessant-agonizing-pain. Inevitably, the stubborn streak that has possessed me since I entered this world would not accept that my feet were being butchered to bloody stumps and within six hours I felt as though I was locked up in a medieval torture chamber, having one-inch thick wooden wedges hammered gleefully between my first and big toes by the Marquis de Sade himself. AND having the sides of my feet being shredded by a hedgehog being viciously and violently rubbed against my poor soft untreated skin.

I am hoping to lose the freshly-sodomized-by-a-rhinoceros look that the brutal wounds between my toes have given my walk, regain some dignity and will use the flip-flops as a door wedge from now on...

Next week, on "Life on the edge", we see what happens when Tesco runs out of Strawberry yoghurt. The drama, the tension, the raw emotion. All on this blog... Wow...

PS: I apologize for the 'sole' joke in paragraph 2, I truly do. That was abysmal, even by my usually low standards.