My youth was carefree and fun. Until I hit the age of seven. This being the age that my school deemed it necessary for all children to go and have their sight checked. Off we all went to our local hospital (now a bunch of swanky flats).
Twenty four went in.
Two were left sat in the corridor outside the room with respective parents whilst the optician (or very tall man in white coat as he was known to us) went to organise a prescription.
My earth shattered. I, along with one of my classmates had been caught out. For a couple of years I had got by in assembly as I struggled to read the hymns off the overhead projector. A clever ruse was formed by enlisting the help of my friend who would whisper the next line out to me for any songs I didn’t know the words to. This worked. Who needed to see the world clearly anyway. It looked nice slightly blurred and the headaches meant more time spent in the sickroom next to the school secretary.
Paper prescription in hand, my mum took me off to the local opticians to choose my very first frames. From a very jolly collection of plastic and metal frames that looked all the same but in varying shades of tortoiseshell or black thick Ronnie frames. The one slightly feminine frames were metal and were pink and gold. They fit and were not at all blokey like the others. And that was that. My never ending relationship with glasses began.
And now I see that some people think it’s super cool to wear dorky thick black frames, the very same I looked upon with horror and disgust. What is more annoying is the cheek to not even need them. Could they not even attempt to get some kind of sight correcting lenses put in? Or stab themselves in the eyes just a little? No? I’m not even going to try and find my old black Ralph Lauren frames I wore in the 90s. I wouldn’t want to look cool…
Now where did I put them.