A right spectacle
Yet another trip to the opticians. I only wanted some new contact lenses, yet I’ve already had more consultations than a hesitant pre-op. Apparently the dillying and accompanied dallying is due to my peepers having developed some extended blood capillaries meandering across my eyeballs like red buses through country roads. Sigh. So I’m still on trial. And I was strongly advised to buy new glasses too. I innocently ask how much that is likely to cost and I am answered with well rehearsed salesmen spiel, explaining how the frames cost from just £25 to £125. Then he sticks the knife in by telling me because my eyes are so goddamn crap I would obviously need ultra-thin lenses as their fancy pairs of Jasper Conrans and Red or Deads were not made for lenses the depth of a kiddie-fiddler’s courdoroy turn-ups.
The town is bustling with easter egg overdosed little ‘uns and their hollow faced parents. The pavements and shop fronts bleached with the weak sun. I convince myself to heal my bruised self-esteem and my growling stomach at the same time with tea and toast at the little café around the corner. An old fashioned but cosy eaterie where all the grey haired women know each other and talk in cooed tones to a borrowed toddler grandchild. I sat in the corner nursing myself with my book and buttery toast. I feel a bit better now. Especially when I can forget how I’m contorting my face to make my old glasses stay perched safely upon my nose. Sorry missus I’m not pulling faces I promise, it was a lovely cup of tea, thank you.
