Four months on and Phil and I have still got the smae contacts in that we started this trip with. Remember, we started with nothing at all, and in seriousness of not taking anything at all with us incase of emerencies or unexpected, or expected eventualities, we didn't take spare contact lenses with us. Luckily, we both prepared for our situation of not being able to get cleaning solution etc by having day and night contacts, great time and hygiene saving devices that never need to be removed before bed.
Off to the opticians we pop. Laubman and Pank in Darwin and talk to a guy named Graham Bailey. All we need is a prescription and then we'll be be able to fit you with contacts. Ah....here lies the problem. We not only do not have prescriptions but we cannot pay for an eye test and neither can we wait patiently for weeks until an appointment become free.
In true Australian style he replies "No worries mate." then books us in for a special appointment for free and fits us with three months worth of lenses, cleaning solution and cases.
The peace of mind after geting the all clear from the over use of contact lenses lifted a heavy worry and we were feeling fresh as newborns with our new eyes.
Thank you so much for helping us whinging poms get newly clear vision!
Much appreciation to Phuong Truong at Laubman and Pank
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Going for a thong
How do the Aussies do it?
How do they walk around all the livelong day with a thin membrane of foamed rubber flimsily attached to the foot and be such happy, carefree souls?
I tell you: because the thong compels it.
Call it what you will: the thong, the sandal, the flip flop even, the poor traveller unaccustomed to wearing the apparel will come, oh quite literally, unstuck. Choose wisely wont you, because there is much to bear in mind.
The thong thing has perplexed me since the beginning. My first pair were surreptitiously bought at a side market, where no one would see me buying items designed to flagrantly show off the foot, and I wore them with some trepidation, the way a cross-dresser emerges from his bedroom for the first time, into the world, to fetch some beers from the garage, only to be accosted by the neighbours, up late. 'Do they know?' I asked myself as I aired my feet in public for the first time ever. Like Hulk Hogan in high heels I was unsure of my footing, and walked as though bow-legged as my buttocks swayed and punched each other in my coiled jeans.
'Things have to get better' I mused.
They didn't. In a word. They got worse:
-I have had slippery thongs, that, after walking for two minutes, become greasy with perspiration (your feet sweat?!) making every step a potential dance move.
-I have had thongs that tear between my toes, that rub either side of the soles, causing blisters and tentative, toddler-like walking ('there-there, well done') .
-Those that come without any grip enable the greasy thong on the tentative stepping blistered foot to fly forward squat-leg-thrusting down the boulevard.
-There are those that burst themselves and pop out, making them unwearable.
-Others leave black, sticky residue all over the foot as the grime from dirt, dust and sweat comingle to cake the poor tootsie.
-"A dogs ate my thong at the beach, sir" is an unlikely excuse but a true event.
I'm down to a pair of castaway thongs, held together with tape and needles to brace them.
I can't go on like this.
How do they walk around all the livelong day with a thin membrane of foamed rubber flimsily attached to the foot and be such happy, carefree souls?
I tell you: because the thong compels it.
Call it what you will: the thong, the sandal, the flip flop even, the poor traveller unaccustomed to wearing the apparel will come, oh quite literally, unstuck. Choose wisely wont you, because there is much to bear in mind.
The thong thing has perplexed me since the beginning. My first pair were surreptitiously bought at a side market, where no one would see me buying items designed to flagrantly show off the foot, and I wore them with some trepidation, the way a cross-dresser emerges from his bedroom for the first time, into the world, to fetch some beers from the garage, only to be accosted by the neighbours, up late. 'Do they know?' I asked myself as I aired my feet in public for the first time ever. Like Hulk Hogan in high heels I was unsure of my footing, and walked as though bow-legged as my buttocks swayed and punched each other in my coiled jeans.
'Things have to get better' I mused.
They didn't. In a word. They got worse:
-I have had slippery thongs, that, after walking for two minutes, become greasy with perspiration (your feet sweat?!) making every step a potential dance move.
-I have had thongs that tear between my toes, that rub either side of the soles, causing blisters and tentative, toddler-like walking ('there-there, well done') .
-Those that come without any grip enable the greasy thong on the tentative stepping blistered foot to fly forward squat-leg-thrusting down the boulevard.
-There are those that burst themselves and pop out, making them unwearable.
-Others leave black, sticky residue all over the foot as the grime from dirt, dust and sweat comingle to cake the poor tootsie.
-"A dogs ate my thong at the beach, sir" is an unlikely excuse but a true event.
I'm down to a pair of castaway thongs, held together with tape and needles to brace them.
I can't go on like this.
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