Now we have a little more time to catch our breath and gather our thoughts, details the time constraints and general lethargy of late restricted us from sharing with you keep bubbling to the surface. We reckon it’s about time to rectify that.
Glasses, Spectacles – call them what you will; they’ve always been part of The Homestead.
The Goat Herd was the first glasses wearer when, at the age of four, she failed the kindergarten eye test; at eighteen months, the only way of ensuring The Farmer’s stayed in place was by way of a very stout elastic band. The Renovator made it to sixteen before not being able to read the programme synopsis on the TV proved too much for him, and two year old Farm Girl was assigned them more as a way of signalling to others she has an eyesight issue than as an aid. So, when The Bean Counter threw in the towel and joined the speccy ranks, that left only one sole naked face on The Homestead: your humble scribe.
Now, just between you and me these glasses wearers have driven me mad over the years. The younger ones would take them off in a manner that stretched the arms, leave them on the floor for unsuspecting people to stand on, fall off bikes/skateboards/jungle gyms and scratch the lenses, or – ultimate sin -throw them in temper. Mozart and his blimmin’ Clarinet Concerto alone cost us a new lens and a general frame panelbeating. The Renovator kept growing (who knew sixteen year old heads were not adult sized?!) requiring a regular update of frames and The Bean Counter has super-long eye lashes that create havoc with the anti-scratch/anti-glare/whatever-the-latest-anti-thing. These people just did not understand how to care for this major investment sitting on their noses.
Words can not express the joy at being able to read my own text messages when away from home, the labels in the supermarket, a menu, and aged articles in out-of-date waiting room magazines; all these being places far away from where my reading glasses were. However, this new development has exposed me as being far and above the worst glasses-wearer-carer. I have sat on them more times than I care to recall, I knocked them off the bedside table and then stood on them while making the bed, and I even caught myself just before I launched them across the room when I broke the fifth and final sewing needle trying to hem a pair of jeans. None of these things, however, resulted in a costly visit to our friendly local optometrist. No, those three visits have resulted from a failing I had no idea I possessed: that of over-enthusiastic cuddling.
Initially, to minimise damage, I attempted to whip my glasses off when a cuddle looked imminent but that somewhat spoiled the moment. Then I worked on a turn-the-face-away move, but my cuddlees read that as affection being withheld. Now, I just roll with it.
I’d rather walk around with wonky glasses or foot yet another spec-tweaking bill than miss out on one of these.