You win some; you lose some.
In the never-ending story of My Life With Contact Lenses, yet another chapter has been opened.
With all the zest of the most bigoted ex-pat I have used part of my time in the Mother Country (it is impossible to type that without irony, I feel) to go to the doctor and all the other professional personal maintenance managers that I can fit in.
Yesterday was the turn of the optician.
Even though I am and have been living in a foreign country for some time, as far as doctor, dentist and optician are concerned I am still very much resident in Rumney. As my doctor said when I saw him after a considerable lapse since I last visited, “Ah, a seamless patient attendance record!” My optician is still under the impression that I am a honest-to-god paying patient of their contact lens scheme. And I am not about to disabuse them.
My eye test was exhaustive and I was glad to see that the obnoxious puffer test had been made a little more sophisticated. For those of you lucky sods with perfect vision, one of the little tortures invented by opticians is to put your head in a sort of iron brace and then have a shot of compressed air directly onto your eyeball. It goes against every instinct in the human body to keep an eye open when you know that something is going to hit it and the shock does not diminish with experience. This time I was given a much gentler treatment using a hand-held oblong with two short protrusions on it one of which was placed near my eye and a sort of faint tickling of the eyeball ensued: unpleasant but no shock.
My eyes have deteriorated - subtly but just about on the bounds of noticeability.
As is usual when I visit to have my contact lenses checked, yet another optician makes yet another attempt to find the compromise that will allow me to wear contact lenses for distance and reading. This time (yet another) new lens on the market which compensates for the astigmatism in my right eye has been tried and I go back on Thursday to see how things work out. I have to say that although reading is not easy with my contact lenses it is better with the new one. Or there again it might just be wishful thinking and the optician’s version of the placebo effect. Who cares as long at it “works”!
My eventual emergence from the vaults of the optician galvanized me into a series of visits which I had promised myself.
The first was to Ceri’s studio where I was able to see work in progress. There is a beautifully finished charcoal of a waterfall where the seemingly effortless depiction of falling water would send Toni into paroxysms of envy. As the charcoals are studies for the tempera paintings I think that this one is going to be truly spectacular. I think that I will have to get my pennies together and treat myself to that one. And yes, Dianne, that is not a casual statement slurred out through drink – which was my expression of interest in the first Ceri painting that I bought!
There were a couple of small pen drawings which I noticed: one of water running over rocks and the other of a landscape with rather scary brambles in the foreground which are going to look wonderful when framed up ready for sale. I think that they will fly out of the gallery and I hope that Ceri does more of them.
However I was not there to snoop around taking photographs for Toni (though I did do that as well!) but rather to get something for delivery elsewhere!
That waterfall is going to look good. It really is. Perhaps I should phone now and not wait.
Then to Tesco, not, this time for myself, but rather so that I could buy flowers for the aunts.
My next visit was however to Rookwood Hospital and the spinal section where a friend was eagerly waiting to go home to the adapted garage which, even as we speak, is being completed for his residence with the inclusion of facilities and the raising of the floor to make it wheelchair accessible. For a man who was paralysed from the neck down, he has made remarkable progress and can now get himself into a wheelchair! He was looking (as far as the truly depressing surroundings of a condemned hospital can allow) healthy and happy – and early next month should see him out of the place.
Elated by my first visit I progressed to the first of my aunts, who had herself been to Rookwood for treatment and can barely allude to it without a shudder. However we had a chat and I put the flowers into a vase so, for a time, all was well with the world.
As my aunt is in her eighties she is finding that she is gradually being isolated in her generation as all her friends and relatives die. She does have family of children and grandchildren but she (as indeed do I) miss her brothers and sister.
My next visit was to another aunt who, though 95! Is bright, sharp, active and intelligent. The female line in her family is renowned for its longevity, so my single cousin on that side of the family can be assured of a long life ahead!
It has, to my shame, been a considerable time since I last saw my aunt and when she opened the door she stared blankly at the large man holding flowers until I said, “In your own time, aunt!” when she immediately said my name!
Our conversation was sparkling and it was an oddly rejuvenating experience to talk with (not to, as she more than held her own!) her.
All of this visiting completely wiped from my mind the fact that I had promised a friend that I would go and visit the museum and the new gallery and then have lunch. My blithe ignoring of this appointment meant that telephone calls zinged their way from person to person so that eventually an international element was added when Toni was informed that I hadn’t kept an appointment and there was no contacting me.
Part of my telephonic isolation was because my phone still thinks that it is in Spain and so the international code for that country has to be applied to get to me and I have to use the international code for the UK when I phone anyone here.
When I was eventually contacted the memory of the appointment, made it must be admitted in a wash of red wine, came flooding back and I later had to make a grovelling apology. Sigh!
Now it is time to visit my uncle in Maesteg. But before that is the traditional Getting Paul Squared Out of Bed ritual. His slumber is truly a little death and I feel positively Christ-like as I command him to rise and walk!
My Uncle Eric (a mere child compared with my Aunt from yesterday) was a little slower and a bit more arthritic but he too made me a cup of tea (a nephew’s prerogative) and our chat was as interesting and topical as ever. There comes a point in a nephew’s life when he realizes that perhaps he should have spent more time talking to his relatives – ah well!
By way of penance I went to Llandaff Cathedral and asked to speak to the verger. I was escorted to his room by a very obliging person from the gift shop area and was then a little bemused by his attitude of beratation (a word which does not exist but should) while he abused me roundly much to the bemusement of the lady who eventually asked, “Do you two go back a long way?” before going about her duties.
This unexpected visit (on the part of the verger) may have bought me some credit to help expunge (fat chance) from his mind my unforgiveable forgetting of my luncheon appointment!
By way of contrast I went to a Chinese restaurant on Llandaff High Street in a period cottage and sampled, or at least tried to sample the two-course meal for just under nine quid.
I was shown to my table and given the menus. When the lady appeared I had not decided and asked for a little more time. And was then ignored. I thought that I was being punished for having the effrontery to demand extra time, so I took out my mobile and continued reading the obscure Conan Doyle novel which I only read in snatches when I am delayed or at a loose end.
Eventually another Chinese woman saw me and asked if everything was alright and having given her my order I then heard peals of Chinese laughter as my isolation was discussed. The original girl herself came around the screen giggling hysterically and sort-of apologized. It was very difficult to be angry in the face of such hilarity so I just settled down to enjoy my food.
Spicy spare ribs and spicy chicken with egg-fried rice were well served and tasty – but I didn’t feel full in the approved way that is natural for Chinese food and I kept thinking about the similarly priced menus del dia that I could get at home. With wine! I was steely in my resolve not to add anything to my menu so left wondering if the half a Belgian Chocolate Cookie from Tesco was still in the fridge at the Pauls’.
But it wasn’t. Which makes my resolve even more praiseworthy. Or something.
I did notice the mature Cheddar in the fridge that I bought still pristine and inviting!
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