How I Flip-flopped On Flip Flops

The internet roared and I was listening: have you ever flip-flopped on an issue, DO you ever flip-flop?

Well no, I’m not an American presidential candidate – where I’m from we just call it changing your mind.  But then, where I’m from we’re suspicious of anyone who changes his mind – anyone who takes such a cavalier approach to holding opinions must be a spiv and a cad, and possessed of unsettling weaknesses of character.

And he must be avoided at parties.

Or at the very least one must make a wry comment at his expense over one’s dry martini.  It’s our way of saying ‘I don’t like you, you make me angry.’

Where I’m from we don’t need oppressors – we censure ourselves.

But, to my chagrin, I must admit to being one of these charlatans – for I do in fact flip-flop.  Not for me the granite certainty of opinion.


At first I wasn’t fussed, then I liked them, then I hated them.  Then (again) I softened up, and then one gave me a blister so I threw it in the sea.  Then I felt guilty about its partner, now devoid of both companion and purpose, so I fashioned it into a boat for a wandering group of anthropomorphised animals who were seeking the way back to Toad Hall.

Clearly I was possessed of a mercurial temperament, and if I wasn’t careful I might incite the wrath of my society and end up like Anna Karenina (ie Keira Knightley would someday play me in the movie of my life).

So nowadays I hide my shame and simply steer clear of that whole flip flop debacle;

I wear espadrilles.


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