Thank goodness it wasn’t a tyre blowout though.

It was only my shorts.  

Don’t be too sad, they had a pretty good innings.

Actually, instead of being sad, how about you just enjoy a squeal of surprise followed by a belly laugh that gurgles up until it takes your breath away?

I’m pretty sure I heard a few of those behind me as I waltzed up the ironically named ‘Valley of Winds Walk’ at Kata Tjuta, while the families I passed copped an eyeful of my unfortunate pants situation.  

It wasn’t too offensive – just a very large tear that began in the back seam of my grey cotton drill ‘old faithfuls’ and grew marginally bigger each time I rested on a rock or took a large step during the climbing sections.  

When the tear started to go rogue and travel away from the seam, things really got hairy, as my black underwear was at risk of not providing enough coverage.  

With a mother blessed by a very feminine derriere, 16-year-old Katianna eventually got sick of walking super close behind me to protect my dignity, and told me it was time to change.  

Of course the bottom line, and crux of the problem, was my minimal packing policy.  

I pride myself on taking only a tiny suitcase with me when I travel – that and my credit card – so I had zero warm weather options and was postponing changing into my hot pants; by that I mean long.   

They say pride comes before the fall, although, in this case, it was preventing a fall that caused the torn attire in the first place and damaged my pride.

Life is so cyclical.  

Twelve-year-old Tiani and I had scooted down a large steep section of rock at Uluru on our behinds. 

While clinging on for dear life, we had happily sacrificed the fabric protecting our posteriors.    

After the blowout, I did consider activating the credit card strategy involved in my minimal packing policy, but just couldn’t bring myself to pay $100 for a pair of shorts that did my figure no favours.  

Luckily by that stage, just like the tear in my pants, we were headed south.  

Yolande Grosser