What are the chances.

I lived in Braddon in Australia.  Then I moved to Bardon.  A few house moves later, I moved into a house in England. As I was moving in, at the front gate, I discovered this pen. Odd.

Nowt queerer than folk.

I bought two new pair of glasses today. I sat opposite the assistant at a table in the shop, and he got me to try on the frames, whilst he worked out what needed adjusting on the specs to fit my head and ears.  He was a big bloke, but seeing as we weren’t in a ‘who can block out the sun’ competition, his bulk wasn’t important.

I tried on one pair, and looked over the assistant’s shoulder into the distance; it was amazing to be able to see things clearly. I shook my head about to see if the glasses would fall off.  The customer, a lady, at the next table stared back at me.  To me, she looked possibly in her fifties, and definitely mauled and spat out by life.  

She commented that my glasses made my look ‘foxy’. Embarrassed, I shrugged off the compliment. I tried on the second pair of glasses and could see the edges of objects and read distant words, which was quite a novelty.  The assistant attending to me busied himself with finessing my glasses. This time the lady said I was handsome. 

I thanked her for her kind words, and felt a bit guilty that if she had been an ultra goddess, then I might have been more pleased with the compliment. But coming from such a chewed toffee, it didn’t hold much value or import to me.

The assistant went off to make the adjustments to my specs. 

The lady said she was originally Rhodesian and her dad had left her 3000 acres of land, which would have been nice, had Robert Mugabe not taken them off her. 

I said Mugabe was a proper mentalist.

“England was fab until all the foreigners came over.” Said the Rhodesian.  Which was a wonderfully impregnable point of view for a Rhodesian to enjoy.

Apparently, she had 6 pairs of glasses.

So why was she getting another pair?

She kept smashing them when she had one of her seizures.  And it meant she couldn’t drive any more, or work, and was on benefits. She was an epileptic and wearing glasses was expensive and dangerous, but she didn’t want to get her eyes lasered, as that would mean adding to the considerable list of ologists looking after her. She had an oncologist for her lung cancer, someone for her fits, someone for her skin condition, and a gynaecologist (I hoped the fact that she wasn’t yet wearing her new glasses might mean she wouldn’t be able to see me visibly shuddering at that information).  She had obviously had a tough time. And I was beginning to empathise and sympathise with her. And feel even more guilty for my previous, uncharitable thoughts.

The assistant helping me returned and sat down opposite me with his back to Mrs Mugabehater.

“Wow,” she exclaimed to my helper. “You’re pretty rotund, aren’t you.”

He ignored her.

“Do you live at home with your mum?”

He turned around to look at her. “No. Why?”

“Just thought you might like her cooking. “

He looked back at me. Neither of us could believe that she was actually saying it.

“Oh come on fatso, you need to lay off the pies and cake for a while.”

We both shook our heads and ignored her.  I concluded my business and thanked him for his help. But as I left the shop, it did occur to me that Mugabehater’s seizures might have been brought on by her head hitting the floor in response to her giving someone one of her unsolicited personal improvement insights.