Getting On.

“I SAID HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED VARIFOCALS, MRS H??” The nice lady in Specsavers said to me for the third time, clearly becoming irritated.  She glanced up at the poster behind her. “AND DID YOU KNOW WE ALSO DO HEARING TESTS??”  I didn’t know, actually.  I’d been staring blankly at her for several minutes as she was blathering on and I could have sworn she said “My goodness, you look just like Angelina Jolie”, or “I can’t believe you’re over 40”.  But obviously she didn’t.  And varifocals?  Aren’t they for the over 80’s?  That’s just one of those words I tend to associate with the elderly, along with dentures, boiled sweets and surgical stockings.  Actually my dad swears by them (the varifocals, not the stockings).  But then again, my Dad is 78. And I’m nowhere near that.  No.  Most defnitely nowhere near it at all.

She finally convinced me to give them a go.  In fact, she also offered me a free pair and a contact lens trial.  I was totally and optically overwhelmed.  I’m sure she was starting to feel sorry for me. I went in there thinking I was getting a new pair of reading glasses, then suddenly I’m classed as elderly, practically blind and hard of hearing. Ah what the hell.  I can move with the times.  I’m up for the challenge of radical eyewear.  I’ve never fancied poking myself in the eyes on a daily basis and if I had a pound for every time I’d lost my reading/distance/spare/sunglasses, I’d have approximately £59.  They’ve taken getting used to I can tell you.  I was like a nodding dog for weeks.  People thought I was constantly agreeing with them. Which invariably I wasn’t.  I had a stiff neck too.  But I’m getting used to them.  In fact they look quite stylish.  And now I only have one pair to lose instead of 4.  Which is one less thing to worry about when you can’t hear the juggernaut!

Not Angelina Jolie!
They also came in handy when I recently had to go and see the specialist about my hip.  It had been niggling ever since I’d danced like a large orange twat at my 80’s themed birthday party dressed as a shit Madonna (the over-rated ageing singer, not Jesus’ mother – that would have been a totally different night altogether!).  I was also wearing inappropriate footwear for my age but gargantuan amounts of Jagermeisters seemed to numb the pain. The next day I couldn’t walk. I’d partied like it was 1983 and now I was walking like I was 83! Sparing you the long boring bit of copious visits to the GP, I eventually got a referral to a big knob, got x-rayed and there I am, suddenly staring at my misshapen pelvis, from a distance, clear as anything.  I could have sworn he said “You’ve got fantastic legs”.  What he actually said was “You’ve got osteoarthritis.  You need a hip replacement. I reckon you’ve got about two years”.  Crikey.  I really need that hearing test.
Large orange twat
I was too speechless to ask whether 2 years was how long I had left til the replacement or whether he’d noticed that I was wearing varifocals, decided I must be at least 80 and thought I might as well just be put down. I hope not.  I’ve just spent a small fortune on new fricking glasses!  But maybe it’s not such a bad thing.  Maybe I can choose my new hip.  Maybe I can ask for a thinner one. Like Angelina Jolie’s?  
Barley sugar, anyone?

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