Yesterday I had to go to an Optician and he pronounced me ‘officially old’.
Let me explain. I have been finding it harder and harder to see, especially when driving at night. In fact after twilight I see a lot better with no glasses at all (be afraid Connecticut drivers). With this in mind I deduced that I probably needed to get some new, clear, unscratched and unfoggy glasses. And while I was going to the effort of visiting an optician I figured there would be no harm getting my eyes tested at the same time, especially as my arms no longer seem to be long enough to allow me to read properly.
So yesterday I found myself at a major optical store looking into a light held by Dr. Goldstein (or something similar). He seemed a nice enough gent and bade me to follow his pencil light or read various letters on his board etc.. He asked the usual questions, made the usual ums and ahhhs and everything seemed to be progressing quite nicely. We did the nasty puff-in-your-eyeball machine and he still seemed happy with everything. Then, out of the blue and with a staggering casual cruelty, he pronounced me as old! Over the hill, aged, almost an AARP member! I could feel the Christmas gifts of Tartan (plaid) Carpet Slippers and matching hot water bottle lurking in my near future. My descent into Victor Meldrew is almost complete. ‘I don’t belliieeevvee it!’.
Actually what he said was:
“Everything seems to be fine but you’ll need bi-focals.”
And that was it. No sympathy. No cup of tea. No offer of discount on incontinence pants. Nothing.
I broke the news to my much-younger-than-me wife, who luckily (for me anyway) didn’t immediately file for divorce (as far as I know). She did try to defend things by saying it did not mean that I was old but when I challenged her to name one young person who had bi-focals there was a long, long, long silence.
So there you have it I’m old!
Right! I’m off to complain about music from the kids next door and put my foot in hedgehog.
<Enter stunningly witty and clever tagline here>
Bazza
