The main point about going to the beach is that it involves such a lot of preparation.
Towel, mat, water, hat, sun-block, bathers, book and flip-flops packed, I went in search of a quiet spot on the sand.
Three hours of slow baking later, I slipped into my flip-flops and headed home.
After getting caught in a tropical downpour my route turned perilous. One foot sunk into clinging clay and my flip-flop tag snapped as I removed my leg from the sucking situation.
Wondering how I'd get back to civilization (car park : traffic lights : mad cyclists ...the usual stuff) one footed...I set off.
The sand part was easy, when I got to the stony path though the ‘degree of difficulty' soared. Having tried reflexology stone paths hardly prepared me for the boulder experience happening under foot.
Pain...pain...more pain...and I'd only taken three steps.
I looped my towel under the foot, hooked it round the left shoulder and started off again. The Painometer reading was now down to 9.2.
After a hundred yards of hopping along like Long John Silver in Treasure Island a passing beachgoer gave me a green parrot, saying it completed the picture.
‘Does is talk?' I asked.
‘Female, never stops...' my generous donor walked off.
‘Pieces of eight,' I advised my feathery companion.
‘No change, mate,' she answered.
‘Four minute mile.' I tested her speed.
‘Three minute egg,' she boiled back.
‘Two's company...' I smiled.
‘One day you're gonna get caught...' she was getting rather smart.
I released her.
On I hopped, staggered, crawled...cursing the God of Flip-flops who had set me in such a plight.
Moral of the story - putting your foot in beach quicksand, can leave you without a leg to stand on. And a painful walk home...
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