First Sight

I need some new glasses. I’ve been wearing them for over thirty years now and, as you would expect, my prescription has been getting stronger and stronger over the years. I wore them every day from getting up to going to bed with no problems until a couple of years ago. Around that time I found that I was having trouble reading while wearing my glasses (which I wear for seeing distances) so I started taking them off to read. I looked so cool in ‘specs on top of the head’ mode. Honestly.

But then there came an even greater problem. While my glasses were still doing the business for my distance vision I began to notice that I could no longer read small print with or without my glasses.

It was time to visit the optician.

After a lovely consultation I was given the bad news. Not only did I need new glasses but I needed varifocals, the expensive kind. The kind that cost over two hundred pounds more than any glasses I’ve ever bought before. After several sharp intakes of breath I asked one of my more stupid questions.

‘What would be the cause of this then?’

I knew her answer before she opened her mouth. ‘Well your job as a writer won’t help’, she warmed be up before the knockout blow, ‘but mostly it’s old age’.

“Old age’. I’m forty-seven. That’s only just middle-aged in my book but perhaps I looked ancient to her. After all, opticians, like policemen, all look like they’ve only just left school to me.

When she’d finished removing my arm and leg in payment for my glasses she gave me the only piece of good news. ‘With these glasses you get a free pair.’ Ooh, that sounded good. So I picked out the first set of frames in the shop that didn’t make my Beloved roll on the floor laughing at the way I looked (that’s usually how man-shopping works with us) and was told that they’d be ready in about a couple of hours. That was fine as we were going to be in the area for a while. They even said they’d text me when they were ready. Now that’s what I call good service. Only it wasn’t.

As I was passing the opticians again around two hours later I thought I’d pop in and see if they were ready. 

‘Sorry sir, not yet.’ That was fair enough, I’d only dropped in on the off chance, so I thanked the nice lady and left.

Predictably I got the text within a hundred yards of leaving the shop. “Dear Mr Finnie. One pair of spectacles is now available for collection at your convenience.”  I turned and walked back in.

‘I’d like to pick up my glasses please.’

The lady looked confused. ‘I’ve just told you that they’re not ready.’ 

I thrust my phone at her face, showing her the message. ‘You’ve just texted me to say that they are.’

She wandered off to look for them and, twenty minutes later, came back. ‘I’m sorry sir, but they’re not ready.’

My Beloved grabbed my arm. Experience has taught her when bad service will cause me to lose my cool and she suspected that I was getting close. She was right.

‘Look again’, I suggested.  It’s difficult to remain calm when talking through gritted teeth.

The optician looked again. She got two colleagues to help. Nobody knew where my glasses were. Nobody knew who had sent the text. My Beloved asked if I minded if she left me to it and went somewhere else, anywhere else, for a short while. I seethed. The world spun on its axis, slowly… slowly…

Eventually they were discovered. I think that they were in a dark basement, in a locked filing cabinet behind a sign saying “Beware of the Leopard”. But I got them and the fit beautifully. Best of all I could see perfectly well and walked out with a round of apologies ringing in my ears.

So it was a stressful and very expensive trip. And next week I have to do it all again when the varifocals arrive.