Josh is doing his sacraments at the moment and is up to the part where he is preparing for his First Confession (known these days as Reconciliation).
Mike is a good, good man, and he likes taking the kids to Church a couple of times a month. I am not as good and often plan Coastrek practice walks for this time.
Newsflash: Coastrek is OVER.
Josh had to be at this morning’s 9am church service to be presented to the congregation as one of the kids about to do Reconciliation, and Mike was out bike riding. The poor man gets about two hours to himself a week where he’s not either working or doing something for the house or the kids, so I took them along.
Now these days, dressing for Church is not a big deal (no best dresses like in the 70’s when my mum would take me) and while some families come dressed very nicely, there are a fair few (including us) in more casual attire, sun dress, board shorts, cutoffs. And today, 3 of the 4 of us were wearing thongs.
Issy, always fashion conscious, had opted for pink sandals. She was also wearing a fetching blue hair band I’ve never seen before in my life.
So we were at the pointy end of the service, where we have to stand up sit down, stand up, kneel down etc culminating in the giving out of communion. And it was during this time that Sarah experienced a fatal thong blowout.
A fatal thong blowout is where your thong strap detaches itself from the thong base, in such a way that cannot be repaired. In a non-fatal thong blowout you can just shove the little circly bit back through the hole at the top of the thong and all is well.
Unfortunately this was not one of those times.
We looked at each other, horrified. With only a few minutes to go until we all had to walk up the front to communion, it was a desperate moment. It was bad enough to be wearing thongs, barefoot was unthinkable.
I tried to get Sarah to dash off and have her communion in my thongs and then dash back for a quick shoe swaperoo. But she was too timid to push in front of all the nice churchgoers (in their suitable footwear).
|One pair of working thongs. Two pairs of feet.|
So we were stuck. Two pairs of feet, one pair of working thongs, one dud.
As the grown up in the situation, I bit the bullet. Sarah took my thongs and I attempted to wear the broken ones. This meant I had to walk (slowly) up the aisle, clenching my big toe and second toe together very tightly to keep the little rubber strap in the semi right position. This caused me to walk like my left knee wouldn’t bend.
I got some very strange looks indeed. My children were no help as they were bursting with laughter. None of us could even look at each other.
I lurched to the top of the aisle, grabbed my little bread and wobbled to the side where I hid behind a pillar and removed the offending thong. I walked back to my seat in full view of anyone who cared, with one thong on and one bare foot. I even waved the broken one at a mate as I went by and whispered “thong blowout”. She cracked up.
The kids and I made it back to our pew and tried not to laugh too hysterically. A friend sitting behind me had noticed my awkward gait and asked sympathetically if I was still sore from Coastrek.
Five minutes later, it was over, I had my thongs back on and Sarah danced barefooted from the church.
When we got home, we threw the thongs in the bin. I think I might insist on ballet flats next time.