"The optician will see you now..."

I wear glasses.

I got my first pair, for reading, when I was about twelve years old, was wearing them full time from sometime in the 1980s and now need varifocals to compensate for the deficiencies of genetics and age.

I don't actually like having to wear spectacles, but have got so used to them that even when contact lenses have been suggested as an alternative, I find that I'm reluctant to change. It's as if I feel that my face would be incomplete without them.

It's been a couple of years since my last eye-test, so while I was in town this afternoon, I went into Specsavers to see if they could fit me in. As luck would have it, I only had to wait for two minutes to get an appointment; an all time record for me.

The test confirmed what I'd suspected and I needed a new prescription, so next Wednesday I'll be collecting my new specs.

It worries me that so many people think that they "don't need glasses".
There are thousands of them out there, insisting that they can see perfectly, when the truth is that they really ought to get their eyes checked and get some corrective lenses to see through.
I can understand their reluctance though. It's clear that the percentage of people who wear glasses is far higher than it was when I was a kid, but there's still a sort stigma associated with needing glasses.
Vanity requires that you don't display your imperfections and such an obvious indication that your eyesight is less than perfect, as a pair of glasses, is hard to deny.
This a potentially dangerous vanity, particularly if you drive a car. I've even heard people say that they've got glasses for driving, but they don't wear them because they make them look stupid.
I seems that they'd rather knock some poor sod off his bicycle because they didn't see him, than appear unfashionable.

Having my eyes tested and getting a decent pair of properly prescribed binns isn't going to guarantee that I won't have an accident, but if I do, at least I won't have to spend the rest of my life knowing that I could have done something really simple that could have prevented it happening.

Superstitious? Not me! (touch wood)

Had a pretty good day yesterday, which may come as a surprise to anyone who lives in fear of "Friday the Thirteenth".  Such people would also be horrified to learn that I was booked in for my six-monthly check-up at the dentist.

Oddly enough, I quite enjoy going to the dentist. My parents were from the generation that hadn't fully grasped the concept of oral hygiene. My Dad had all of his teeth removed before he was fifty, and I have a dim recollection of going to a dental hospital in London with my Mum, when I was a toddler. She had to have her gums scraped to treat gingivitis. It sounds utterly barbaric. Luckily I wasn't allowed inside the treatment room, and spent the entire time, fascinated by the enormous 'metal-cage' style lifts, as they clanked their way up and down the building.

In spite of this apparent lack of care, my parents ensured that I went for regular dental checks, and by the end of my teens, I had accumulated a mouthful of mercury amalgam fillings and a couple of spaces where some wisdom teeth used to live. When I left home, my visits to the dentist got very sporadic. With all the moving about from place to place they sort of got lost, and there were a couple of five year gaps between check-ups. Eventually I wised up, and taking a deep breath nipped out from work one lunch-time, and walked into the nearest dental surgery.

It was a shambles. There was brick dust, wheelbarrows and bits of timber cluttering the reception area, and there were two cement- spattered builders, studying some structural detail in the ceiling.

I couldn't see any receptionist, so asked one of the builders when the place would be open for business.

"Oh, we should be finished this time next week."

"OK", I replied "I guess I can wait 'til then."

"Why, have you got a problem?"

"No... not really. I just need to register and have a check up"

"Oh. Well, that's alright. We can do that now. I'll get the appointment book"

"Errrr" I faltered, "No. I was, er... looking for a dentist..."

"We are dentists."

Strange, but true.

A couple of weeks later, I was seated in the big chair, and the guy that I'd last seen brandishing a pointing trowel was giving my teeth an MOT. 

Let's face it; after an introduction as absurd as that, I couldn't possibly have gone anywhere else, and in some subtle way, it has made the whole dentistry business less threatening.

I'm delighted to report that my teeth passed muster again, and to celebrate, I went for a wander around B&Q. 

The 200mm loft insulation is back in stock. (Wooo-Hooo!!) 

It's even cheaper than the last lot I used, so I immediately bought four triple-packs of the stuff.

(Buy now while stocks last, 'goodoldjac'. Reclaim the space previously filled with ice-skates and cardboard)   

When I got to the check-out there were three other blokes who had all clearly had the same idea, as you couldn't move for poorly loaded trolleys stacked with teetering rolls of rock-wool. I'd taken the precaution of buying some nylon rope to stop the whole lot rolling off my trolley, but my feeling of superiority was rudely punctured when I left the building, and started across the car-park. 

The car-park at B&Q is not flat, in fact it has a wicked gradient. I was just about half way back to The Tractor, when one of my rolls of rock-wool slipped out from under the rope. I lunged to stop it falling onto the tarmac, which set the trolley swivelling wildly, and the other three rolls tumbling off the other side.

It could have been worse. 

At least I didn't end up careering down the car park with the trolley, apparently in hot pursuit of four enormous swiss-rolls, as they ricocheted off the various parked cars and steam-rollered hapless shoppers.

 

But it was close.