Dork

Oh hell.

The time has finally come. I've avoided this moment for three years now, and due to my extreme slyness so far thought the moment would never come where I would have to go through the hate and humiliation all over again.

No, it's not my smear test, although I'm sure that's overdue as well now I think about it. It's the trip to the opticians to be told how much blinder I am now.

The reason I'm having to go in the first place is because my trusty spectacles have finally given up the ghost. I don't wear them outside the house - partly because I only need them for watching telly, but mainly because they make me look like Norris from Coronation Street - but three years of hardcore TV watching most nights has meant that they've had a fairly intense life, and they rewarded me for all my use by popping apart where the frame and the arm meets. The lens fell out onto the sofa - hilariously I'd had a beer or two when it actually happened and so didn't realise until I wondered aloud to the Hubbo why William Fichtner looked so out of focus and why I had a headache behind one eye. So now my specs are held together at the side by about eight feet of sparkly sellotape. All I need now is a great big plaster over one lens and I'm in full on Declan Swan territory.

The thing I hate about the opticians is the fact that I am never sure if there's a right answer or not. I always get the feeling that if I say that the three is clearer than the nine, or whatever the hell they make you do nowadays, then the bin doctor will shake their head wryly, note something on a pad and leave the room, and the next thing I hear is them and a colleague emitting shrieks of laughter behind the door while I sit there unable to move as my head is pinned to the back of the chair by the lens-tester thing.

I should really go get myself some confidence one of these days.

Anyway, I can't carry on wearing these crazy-ass party-tape specs for much longer, so I've finally made the appointment to go and see them and see what Ugly Betty type frames they will decide looks good for half my monthly paycheck.

There is, of course, another option, especially as I have a feeling I should probably be wearing some sort of vision enhancer at work. Contacts.

I am torn on the contact lens front. The Hubbo wears them every day, and swears that there is no grief involved at all and I am being a whinging arse. However, I'm crap at putting stuff in my eye. I have visions (or no visions, depending on how you look at it) of me spending forty five minutes every morning trying to get the buggers in, being late for work every single day as a result, blundering about with my eyes shut as the contacts are too uncomfortable, eventually losing all patience and trying to get them out in the work loos, only to find that they've wormed their way round the back of my eyeball (ew) and my vision will be distorted forevermore by a flappy bit of plastic fluttering in my skull.

Have any readers got contacts? Am I being un-necessarily alarmed here? If you have any comforting tales then please let me know.

In the meantime, I must go and repair the bins again as I've got some 24 to get on with watching, and the damn sellotape has started unravelling. And there's no way I'm watching an out of focus Kiefer.

Hangover haiku

I had too much beer

Resulting in angry head

Nurofen is great.