Glasses - Update

A couple of months ago I wrote about visiting the opticians to find out just how blind I am (click here). Well I finally made the appointment on Monday and at 6:00 on Thursday evening I found myself standing at the reception area letting them know I’ve got an eye appointment. The receptionist thought it was funny that I said eye appointment I thought that’s what most people say. She led me upstairs where another receptionist, greeted me and asked if I’d come here before for my eye tests. I shook my head that I hadn’t so he shoved some forms under my nose and told me to fill them out before seeing the optician. I had to fill out questions like, do I watch television? And, how often do I rest my eyes? Surely that’s another way to say how often do I sleep. Anyway, I answered them the best I could and waited for the optician who called out my name after a few moments in strong powerful assertive tone. I got up and followed him into his office. He was striding with an aura of self importance. He pointed to the chair which I guess is where I was supposed to sit and he snatched the form out of my hand in the same manner Emmet Brown ripped the Save The Clock Tower leaflet from Marty’s hand. He nodded then grabbed my chin moving my head side to side then asked if anything had got into my eye. I told him nothing to my knowledge. He thought I had a mark on my left cornea but to make sure he wanted to use some yellow dye. He produced a little pipette from no where and quickly dropped some fluid in my left eye and then one in my right. I guess he thought he might as well do them both. Immediately I started blinking profusely as this foreign substance invaded my pupil. When I finally managed to focus everything had a nice yellow tint to it, it was really weird but in a pleasant way. This mundane office had suddenly sprung to life in a flourish of yellow. I told the optician this but he didn’t care he just told me to nestle my chin on a piece of machinery and stare straight ahead. He went around the other side and started looking into my eyes examining this mark. A minute passed in silence while he looked into my eyes. Then another minute passed and still no one spoke. Usually when this happens my mind starts to drift, and sure enough it did. I don’t know why, I guess I was bored but something random popped into my head and it was this.

Soup Soup
That Tasty
Soup Soup
That Spicy Carrot and corriander
Chilli Chowder
Crouton Crouton
Crunchy friends in a liquid broth
I am gespatio (oh)
I am a summer soup (mmm)
Miso Miso Fighting in the Dojo
Miso Miso Oriental Prince from the land of soup

I was transfixed by this song, playing it over and over in my head. I wasn’t aware that the optician was calling my name. I felt the fool when he finally got my attention by rocking my shoulder but the song was still ringing round. He told me that there was a slight scratch on the cornea but not to worry. I wasn’t. He then made me wear glasses with one eye covered with a patch and told me to read the letters from the white board, when I finally got stuck on line 5 he replaced the lense with another one and things became clearer and I read all of them apart from the bottom line. I think that’s impossible anyway, and it’s just a joke that opticians do to amuse themselves. I then went through the whole process again with the other eye and again I got right until the bottom line. I took off the glasses and the optician told me I needed some spectacles for reading and watching and television. I expected this and he led me outside where a young eager salesgirl awaited me. The soup song was still in my head but I didn’t think it was clever to start singing it out loud. The salesgirl virtually held my hand guiding me to all these glasses but I wasn’t really interested in any of them. She showed me ones that looked like something an SS Nazi officer would wear, some rimless Sven Goran Eriksson one’s but they were far too expensive. I did quite like the look of some thick black rimmed ones but when I looked in the mirror I just looked like a dopey Clark Kent. I even enquired about a monocle but apparently they are no longer in fashion. So in the end I procured some half rimless ones that make me look sort of intelligent. I collect them next week.

In case you don’t know the soup song. Here’s how the professionals perform it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I29IjrCY6Wc&feature=related


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“You fucking are if you want to get a cut of some up and coming jobs. You’re supposed the hard nut of our set up.”

Charles looks at the gun. He stares at the scratched tally chart and thinks if he’ll ever add to it. He didn’t want to use the gun, he tried to justify it to himself that he wouldn’t have to use it just scare people by bringing it into sight. If he had to use it he could just hit them with the butt of the pistol.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“What’s there to think about you fucking pussy?”

The lounge door opens causing Gregor to spin round pointing the gun as Marla enters. She at first looks at Gregor’s serious expression. His eyes fiery with passion and his mouth open to bear his clenched teeth. Then she notices what he’s pointing towards her. Charles waits for the horrific scream that she is capable of but instead she looks at the object. She cranes her neck to examine it as Gregor gets up and embraces her, kissing her on the cheek. He places the gun in her hand and she stares in wonderment.

“This is amazing you’ve got a gun. A fully functional gun?” She asks still looking at the pistol in her hands.

“Of course, my dear, of course. It doesn’t seem you’re scared of these things, unlike your husband.”

“You’re scared of them Charlie? Why in earth?” She says as she starts pointing it around the room. She takes aim at the miniature statue of David that is standing on the fire place. Her eyes squinting slightly as she looks at the target.

“I’m not scared of it. I’m just, I don’t know. It sort of worries me that we might have to use them.”

“Ahhhh, so what if we have to shoot someone might do them some fucking good. I came here tonight to show you what I’ve spent months trying to get. Do you know how fucking hard it is to speak to a Ukrainian that understands only broken English? And it’s your wife that’s taken any genuine interest in them. Marla, talk some sense into him we need him for a job in a couple of weeks and he’ll need practice. I’m going to the pub.”

Gregor stands up, takes one last hard stare at Charles making sure he makes direct eye contact with his eyes. Then he leans over kisses Marla on the cheek again and takes the gun away from her grasp and slips it into his pocket nonchalantly like as if it was a wallet or his mobile phone. The door slams as he leaves them both.

Marla turns to Charles.

“Why are you scared of using a gun?”

“Why do you think I’m scared, I don’t want to kill anyone. I mean if in a fight someone was fatally wounded then so be it. But using a gun is so, so abrupt. There’s no control of pressure. Once I’ve pulled the trigger it’s more than likely the person will die. I don’t like that. I want to terrify them with my fists, my crow bar in my hand and play with them a little not terminate their lives if they don’t agree to what I ask. Fuck, I don’t even know how to use one.”

“Times are changing Charlie you need to be able to respond to every situation and by having a gun you’ll be able to do that. Who’d want to argue with someone pointing a ticket to visit death in their face? You shouldn’t be so scared, be a man take the gun. It’s not much different to your baseball bat or crow bar. If you hit someone across the head hard enough you’d kill them.