I was in Specsavers this evening getting fitted up for a new pair of glasses. It was my first eye test for three years, but I had to pop in there last week to have the (tiny) screws on my present pair tightened (nothing worse than wobbly goggles) and I realised that if anything happened to ’em, I’d be totally stuffed.
So I booked an eye test. I did so reluctantly because I hate ’em. It’s not the test itself. Answering whether one set of letters looks more or less blurry is subjective, but since I am the subject I only have myself to blame if I get it wrong.
No, it’s that bloody glaucoma test where you have to sit with your chin on a rest, a green beam homing in on your iris and you’re waiting for the thing to shoot a jet of air in your eye. And not just once. A minimum of three times, assuming you don’t blink. I did. Six shots just for my right orbit.
The good news is that my health in the visionary department is fine. My impairment hasn’t changed since my last test, which itself hadn’t changed from some years before. I only need my glasses for reading and seeing things.
Still, I ordered a new pair. I say “I” but I was just the model. The debate about what was a) suitable, b) trendy and c) matched grey hair went on between Mrs P and the assistant.
That’s the thing about choosing glasses. They let you try them on and point you at a mirror and ask what you think. All you see, without your glasses, is a filmy vision that you nod to.
So I look forward to a new pair of specs in ten days’ time. Shall I then believe myself to be ‘cool’ or find myself in a pair of Dame Edna’s, time will tell.
But have you ever wondered about the 20/20 of the title? No, neither have I, other than that quote from Butch Cassidy etc.
Dates back to 1862 apparently. Click on the eye chart above if you’re interested. Bloody clever them Germans, if subsequently hopeless at foreign policy.