This morning I trudged round to Specsavers to collect the new glasses. An attractive and efficient young blonde lass ensured both pairs were the correct ones and that they fitted correctly. She also resisted somewhat too willingly my invitation to 'do my ironing,' not the first woman in this town to react this way.
The one pair are for outside, these are good and also react to sunlight. Now this appears to be somewhat needless in the UK but I find myself screwing my eyes up on those occasions when the sun does shine. Naturally the dim gray lenses make me look a bit like Roy Orbison (ask your mum kids). The other pair are more difficult. I can see perfectly up to six inches from my nose, after that it fails somewhat. I have glasses for the laptop but when looking at the TV or other side of the room I can see poorly. There fore I wanted a third pair for in between. This is however not allowed these days in case I use them for driving! Pah! So I got 'varifocal' lenses which in theory allow me to see the laptop and the other side of the mess that is my home. I am not sure I like them. To see properly the eye must hit exactly on the spot of the lens, in real life this is difficult. We will give it a go and see what we can see, or not see as is the case.
Never, since I got my first pair of glasses when about twelve years old have I ever got them right! I do manage to make a right er, spectacle of myself in opticians. What appears right at the time appears not quite right later. Bah! The staff were good however, a huge number appear to work there and the service is good so I cannot complain. The actual optician, or whatever name they go under now, was an excellent lass, very competent, vary helpful and knew her stuff. It is always me that wonders if I did the right thing. Now I feel the word 'Bifocal' should have come to mind when being examined, that might have been a better idea. "Shut the gate, the horse has bolted!"
The order came through the other day to report at eleven sharp to the museum today on pain of death, at least. Knowing my masters and having seen glimpses of strange and savage medieval punishment instruments stored therein I dutifully obeyed. The purpose was to have a group photograph taken in connection with an upcoming event. This event I tried to avoid but a quick Chinese burn from the boss enabled me to willingly accept the invitation. Therefore I arrived in good time, spoke kindly to one another also on the premises and sought out the woman in charge. Naturally something went wrong. The photographer was arriving from the local newspaper, except he was based fifteen miles away. Naturally he was called to something else and a feeble excuse was given us. As I headed for the door I was lassoed back and forced to work checking the preliminary panels for the exhibition, this at least was worth while as I found two spelling mistakes. The foto I did not wish to be in however. It is one thing to take pictures, another to take pictures of people but I see my role as in the background where I belong, preferably in a cupboard in the corner. However we must be pictured for publicity she cries! Publicity is not something I seek, I mean what if the police see it for a start? No, no, let me hide and put the lassies forward. No luck, Miss Bossy Boots found the museum camera and, after three attempts, managed to obtain a picture she things good enough for the paper. I had turned round but a sharp elbow brought me back into the picture so to speak. Thereafter it was back to the panels and searching for mistakes. No more indeed and they do look very good I say!
Eventually I was freed by the simple expedient of slipping out the back door when the back was turned. At home I discovered I had another long note to add to what I was (badly) working on so I made the decision to have lunch and fall asleep.
I chose wisely I say.