It’s not enough, apparently, that a man must replace the thongs that have steadfastly stood by him for twenty years and are only slightly pongy. The moment of their disposal must be captured as photographic evidence to be provided to his daughters for them to celebrate.
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Such a different meaning in the UK.
I’m trying to blank out my Imagination.
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Out of town rabble rousers join local protest:
Seismic testing for new gas reserves involves firing an underwater sound pulse at 256 dB every ten seconds for months at a time from a ship sailing in a grid pattern. Each pulse kills the zooplankton within 200m and the tides continually carry new organisms within range. The sound pulses also kill scallops and cause damage to crustaceans and pelagic fish. We still don’t know what they do to whales and dolphins. All this to discover new gas reserves which won’t be able to be exploited given global warming. It’s madness.
Apres-protest tumeric latte:
Man vs Ocean:
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Walked down to a little jetty on Barham River just outside town:
These folks have their own gum blossom red carpet:
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Some days, in order to get back to our footwear, we have to forge our way through the ankle-deep surf:
Foot wash fountain:
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Just…such a hardship…
We were going to walk to Shelly Beach, attractively signposted on the main road as ‘Fox Baiting Area’.
Changed our minds at this sign. Don’t want to deal with those falling limbs only in thongs.
Later visited Marengo beach. Not a warm welcome from the signs:
A high illiteracy rate amongst surfers.
We have chosen our favourite houses in town. Both of these are on a hill on the main road with lovely views over the bay.
Andrea’s choice (she’s not convinced it’s entirely original but would ‘make do’):
I would be happy with this one:
The wind has picked up and a windsurfer was the fastest thing on the beach:
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My wife plays real estate bagging when we are on holiday too. So far the lottery win to fund them needs to exceed the GDP of a small nation.
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