Open Writing

Glasses give wearers a new ‘lens of life’ and I have never seen a permanent wearer yet who didn’t look ill and strained without them. They disguise the parts that contact lenses never reach, although the latter can be an attractive replacement for the marble-thick glasses. I still concede that some people look prettier in ‘specs.’

Our maths teacher used to nearly frighten us into working when he donned his ugly, thick tortoise-shells, but he was not too loveable when he took them off, either. I can see him now, chewing on the frames, making mouth-watering sounds, which drove me enviously to bite another chunk off my ink-rubber.

He was a versatile lens wearer and performed all sorts of fascinating tricks. When he got tired of sucking he would part his hair and dig at his dandruff for a while. He could hitch them up or down his nose without using his hands. In fact he could do anything, except teach me algebra.

But my chance to join the esoterics came with the introduction of National Health frames. Like many others I realised my ‘need.’ It was easy, a cursory test plus an eye-watering confession concerning headaches. Lots of head-holding from me and a little short-sightedness from the optician and I was soon chewing on the pink plastic.

I spent hours in front of the mirror enraptured by the intelligence that shone out of the new glasses. They added rare sincerity to my well-rehearsed wage-increase ‘soliloquy,’ that I was sure no boss could resist. Once I had mastered the art of keeping them on my non-adhesive, almost non-existent nose, my future was secure.

During the early years of marriage I had a strange encounter which made me think twice about wearing them. I was playing my usual part ‘The Constant Wife,’ clicking my needles and watching the clock, when I heard someone tap on the door with what sounded like a wooden leg. Not a salubrious sound at that late hour. Unable to control my feline curiosity I opened the door half an inch. All I could see was darkness until a hand gripped my ankle, and I saw a man stretched out at my feet, holding a walking stick. Realising it was not my husband I helped him to his feet. It seemed he had fallen and could not rise without the aid of his other stick, which was out of reach.

As he turned to thank me he begged me to throw my glasses away! Well I never saw myself as another Grace Kelly, but . . . he explained he had not worn his for twenty years and his eyesight was perfect. It never occurred to me to ask how he had fallen, and I obediently followed his advice.

Recently, I decided it was time to face facts. The other side of the road was not fading into the distance, people were not walking about without features – I needed glasses!

This time it was not as easy as the opticians was twice as big, with double staff, who all talked in whispers and tiptoed everywhere. At first I wondered if I was going deaf as well. The interior was as joyful as a funeral home. Most of the occupants looked as if they had just received their electric bill. When I finally achieved the optician and his ethereal chamber, he looked into my eyeballs for so long I could feel myself slipping into a trance.

Now, answering unusual questions is my speciality. For instance, I know that no surgeon worth his suture, will go near a scalpel until he knows your father’s occupation or which church you attend. But his ‘When did you last eat an orange?’ had me completely flummoxed. I ran my tongue nervously over my lips. Was my mouth stained? Later, as he glared at my pupils in the darkness he seemed to become obsessed with the length of time I spent watching television. Not having passed the orange test, I cut my viewing time in half. He seemed aggressively dissatisfied. Perhaps his daughter was a TV personality, I pondered. When he shone a bright light in my eyes and asked again, I confessed.

Broken and dejected I was ushered into the light again and placed at a small table full of exotic frames where I selected a delectable pair of gold-rims. I was about to try them on when the assistant arrived with a pair of ‘National Health’ blacks. I looked like Arthur Askey in drag.

My ‘How do I look’ pleas were greeted with the usual enthusiasm. ‘Idiotic, repulsive’ and ‘don’t wear them when Mavis comes, please, mum.’

I had hoped to become vital, irresistible, perhaps have more control over the rebellious, but let’s face it, who’s afraid of Arthur Askey?

Of course, I am not short-sighted enough to wear them all the time, just need them to distinguish the sink from the cooker. I conveniently wear them around my neck on a cord, which means when I am not hanging myself, I gaze at the world through egg-splattered spectacles.