Yesterday, a section of my time on this unreal global reality show was spent purchasing specs at a local optician. Satisfied with my current optical prescription, I spurned an eye test. So, while complying to social distancing edicts, I promptly chose two pairs of gigs, to which a masked optometrist added my last lens prescription.
Footnote – Even if I’d have considered there was requirement for an eye retest, I wouldn’t have visited the optician to gauge the fortitude of my sight. After all, eye care practitioners are busy people. Consequently, if I was at all concerned about my ocular wherewithal, I’d follow the lead of an aide to UK prime minister Boris Johnson and drive to Barnard Castle with a partner and young child in the car.
During my fledgling years the enquiry “Who is that masked man?!” was ordinarily uttered during yarns about the Lone Ranger. A deferential request borne from a cast member inquisitively querying the identity of this stealthily attired peoples champion.
In this era of COVID risk mitigation the very same query could manifest a myriad of different responses, from veiling a key worker to an individual whose only agenda for adorning the visage cover is that of venturing outdoors for comestibles.
Masked individuals are now the norm, as opposed to the exception oft depicted in yesteryear’s comic books. Of course, there are thousands of ‘superheroes’ donning protective face coverings, including medical resources, along with other workers fulfilling the roles of essential services.
However, those facial guards not worn to keep their anonymity; moreover, reducing risk of them contracting or spreading coronavirus. Unless, of course, they’re adorning masks when undertaking looting, in which case the cover is most definitely in situ to avoid identification.
Anyhow, after yesterday’s little soiree amongst the hallowed spectacle aisles of a well-known optical dispenser, in 2-3 weeks I’ll be the owner of a two brand spanking ocular correction frames. My first new face furniture since 2016.
Those four years not being the most euphoric of yours truly’s existence. My life during these Timberland gigs’ watch including my dads passing, me afflicted by two life threatening episodes and an enforced departure from my marital home.
To clarify, I’m not superstitious and am in any way suggesting these irksome episodes are any fault of these specs. In fact, I’ve had some great times with these sight correction appliances. GJ Strachan can’t think of such auspiciousness as I write, but I’m sure there’ll have been some existential high points whilst adorning the frames.
Despite admitting there’s absolutely no link between procuring these spectacles and my serendipity plummeting down a bloody big lift shaft, I do hope the new frames and lenses witness the advent in the upturn in my fortunes.
My aspirations aren’t overly high maintenance. The writer seeking not a Faberge Egg, fabulous wealth, a decadence lifestyle, or even a Charles & Diana tea towel. Extravagant purchases leave me cold, especially that unnecessarily large freezer my mum recently procured from Arthur’s Massive Freezer Emporium….. A dubious retail outlet which markets its products with a enigmatic tag line of ‘Arthur’s Freezers – Climb Inside For That Genuine Arctic Frostbite Experience!’
GJ Strachan’s emotional fires are ignited when gravitating towards beauty in prose, art or nature, rather than any brio manifesting from owning a Frankie Big B*llocks house or car. In my book, the latter nothing more than comfort buying, which never provides long term fulfilment.
My life goal is to depart this vale of tears, leaving my two kids a legacy far greater than merely a fiscal inheritance. I want my existential end game to be a pot full of happy memories, along with their notions I’d contributed heavily to a secure, loving, whimsical and caring childhood. An upbringing which’s seen them develop into adults in possession of the same traits.
Anyway, I need to dash…….. Keep well and safe!