Eye say, are those specs for real?
And then there were two. Well, three if you count the dog.
The Ginger Ninja was safely unloaded at his FunZone, or university, and back into the bosom of his buddies.
The journey home was a little quiet and damp, with an amount of snuffling from the passenger, but on the whole it was less traumatic than last time.
Small But Fierce of Ipswich did still resemble a panda afterwards of course, despite the discovery of run-proof mascara (or tar, as we used to know it).
She has been a bit troubled by the old peepers, has SBF. Not because she’s always blubbing, but rather because of advancing years.
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Her arms are now almost too short to hold anything far away enough to be able to read and she’s had to invest three quid on some reading specs.
The irony is that for pretty much all her life she’s wanted to wear glasses. When I first met her in the Eagle in Norwich my first impression was that there was a blonde owl in the bar.
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She was wearing a pair of immense glasses – this was the eighties, remember – with plain lenses in. With her white stilettos and Crystal Tips-style bonce she was unmissable.
Over the years she affected various styles of non-magnifying eyewear as test after test at the opticians revealed that she had fine sight.
Over the last few months, though, things have got a bit blurry for the curly one and I have a secret suspicion that she’s actually looking forward to her next eye test because she will then be officially prescribed glasses.
What a strange little person. Most people dread that day, but hey ho, we’re all different.
We can then look forward to several hours - possibly days - of going from rack to rack, trying on designer specs after designer specs, before she decides on the cheapo ones she found first.
Last year I found myself peering at the printed page through glass after a surprise test failure.
Perhaps I should have got a second opinion, because I don’t think my eyesight is that bad, at least not for reading, although it is for depth perception, as I demonstrate weekly, and indeed weakly, on the badminton court.
If the shuttle is travelling towards me at any speed that can be measured in miles per hour there is a good chance that it will not interface with my hopefully waved bat but instead impact on my forehead with a hollow ‘pok’. Good job I don’t play darts.