Bogged Down

Hello! Long time no speak! I have had no opportunity to do any leisurely passtimes on my PC since I began on my latest attempt to become a little more clever! My search for qualification heaven has taken over my life somewhat and I have become a whole different person since. You may be able to detect it if you compare this to my previous entries. But I am, sadly, no more intelligent. I feel a little bit of me is missing, a portion of my brain has been taken over. Strict word counts for my OU essays mean that I now pour over texts/emails/greetings cards for any words which can be removed without making any change to the overall message that I'm trying to get across. A birthday card that would once have read:
             
                 Dear (person)
         
            I hope you have a lovely birthday today.
          Hope you get all the presents you wished for (and maybe a little more)
            Here's to many more birthdays.
        We really ought to get together soon, it seems like ages since I saw you last
        (goodness-it probably is!). I'll see if we can get over to you in the holidays.
                  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
               xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx!

Now reads:

             (Person)

       Happy Birthday, speak soon. x

I now tweet and find I still have 50 characters remaining. My Twitter ID 'Talkloads' is in serious danger of a lawsuit and even my house has taken on an eerie silence as I precis sentences before I utter anything.

I miss my former self. I even look different. Within a week or so of my OU starting, I began getting headaches. It didn't register at first, I thought I had one of these non-descript viruses (doctor's diagnosis) that turn out to be brain tumors (only after it's too late to treat them). I would have eventually dragged myself to the doctor's but one morning, I went to my maths class (I am one of those duffers who at middle age is still trying to get my maths GCSE 'C' or above) feeling fine and happy. We were doing graphs and after two hours of trying to count pale green lines only fractions of a millimetre apart to put a fat 4-line obliterating splodge to represent the formula y=mx+c (or something) my head was killing me and my eyes were weeping independent of my emotions (although to be honest I feel like weeping after most maths lessons) and it ocurred to me that I may need to get my eyes tested. 

A well-known money-spinning supermarket in my local town were able to arrange an appointment for me to see their optician the next day. So off I went. Late. After a very brief 'history' chat, I was sat in a chair in an unlit cupboard and a pair of remarkably unstable bulky goggles were placed on my face. With no word of warning, like a game of Connect 4 (or 4 in-a-row/ make 4 if you have the cheaper version) a black disc was slotted in the left eye and I was (I think) handed a mirror (or something-it was all a bit of a shock as I had expected bright airy rooms, white coats and a little board on the wall with letters that decreased in size, this  felt more like I'd been abducted by aliens) but not asked to read off the letters reflected (I may be wrong) in front of me, but instead to confirm whether I could see the bottom row. I could have lied for all they knew. This was repeated with the other eye, then, as if the goggles I was wearing weren't precariously placed enough, something heavy was hung off them and I was given a heavy plate-sized tray-shaped gadget that closely resembled a baby toy without the bright colours.

I was asked to look at a portion of it that had a tiny circle with two lines, one above and one below, a bit like the sight on a gun. I was asked whether the lines were in line with one another or not. I didn't know. Sometimes they were, sometimes they weren't. I found myself apologising for being so indecisive but this lady was heartless, gave no reply and began slotting more discs into the goggles and repeating the question over and over again. I was feeling under immense pressure to say the lines were great as I felt she was getting increasingly irritated with my inability to say one answer and stick to it but as the lines were skewing in all directions I really didn't feel I could sound convincing. Finally, the correct combination of discs was found and the lines settled approximately together. The test was over. The lights were put on and we shuffled out of the cupboard, back in view of the queues of people waiting to pay for their groceries, plasma TVs and lawn seed. Humans doing human things-I was back on earth. The lady doing the test had transformed from the evil professor into a nice lady again and was telling me to go into the cupboard opposite for the next test....What?!! More tests? No!

In the next cupboard there were two huge machines, I was directed to one and told to sit on a stool with my chin resting on a....chin rest. A few twiddles of pulleys and knobs and these two 'things' were lined up with my eyes. The evil professor was talking but I couldn't hear her over the sound of my own beating heart. The next thing I remember was a cold blast of air puffing at high pressure into my eyes. Yikes! Three times it happened. I figured I was supposed to keep my eyes open for this but had no physical control over what my eyelids did. However, I apparently passed and was told that I was clear of glaucoma, not that I'd even expected I might have it in the first place? Finally I went to the other machine, complete with chin-rest, not, I suspect to keep one's head steady but to prevent one from collapsing into a heap on the floor through fear of what these aliens were doing. This test required me to look at pin-prick lights and click a button (similar to the one I had on my foetal monitor to track my contractions during labour) every time I saw the light go red-or something. I passed that anyway, and made to leave, thinking my work was done but the Jekyll/Hyde lady called me back. 'Excuse me-I need to write out your prescription' My what? I passed didn't I? Apparently not. It seems that I have a prism in my right eye (have or need one-I'm not sure) and it means that my eyes fail to work in conjunction with one another.

I needed to get glasses!!!

I was offered to look at the range displayed in front of all the tills, but was too traumatised by the whole debacle to be relied upon to safely choose a decent pair of glasses, so with prescription in hand, I scarpered home to lick my wounds and recover from my ordeal. Okay so it wasn't an ordeal but I certainly wasn't in the mood to buy a breadmaker. A few days later, The Grumpster and I visited a famous purveyor of fine spectacles. This was a whole other story but I'm aware I have a word limit so I'll give a brief synopsis.

Woman and man (35-40) enter spectacle store, look at glasses for 10 minutes, wonder why no-one is asking them if they need any help, chance upon a desk called 'Reception' where they ask if someone could assist, only to be told they needed to sign in. Sign in, mill about, see lots of old people wander in to be accosted at the door (despite having not attended the required sign-in point)  by eager staff desperate to wear the 'I'm so good with the old folk' badge. At the point where this has happened at least 3 times, and knowing full well that these staff members know that they have been there for at least 20 minutes, the said couple make moves to leave to spec shop, aware that young children will be taken in by social services if they are not collected from school. Spec store staff practically barricade the door to prevent said couple from leaving and suggest it will only take 5 minutes to find a suitable style. Couple relent, find a style (not a good style, just the least worst) and then agree to go back to complete the transaction another day. The couple return the next day, with a three year-old child who systematically destroys the spectacle shop while the couple order the specs. Justice, they feel, has been done. 

I now have my glasses. I'm getting to grips with the idea of wearing them and in all honesty, with my young daughter not sleeping well at present they feel as if they are the only thing that is stopping my eyes from falling out of my head right now. Many people look really good with glasses. I don't. I was wearing them in a maths lesson last week, waiting for the tutor to come and help me with a 'hard sum', and as he approached and I looked up at him to catch his attention, I felt a look upon my face that you only really see in comic book pictures or sitcoms. Some people look really hot in glasses, that iconic image of a woman removing her one hair clip allowing 10 heads-worth of glowing hair to tumble down their shoulders, then removing her glasses seductively, putting the end of the arm innocently into the corner of her mouth etc ( etc??? See how clumsily I ended that-seductive I am not!) doesn't come without precident. Other people look spectacularly intellectual. In most TV programmes, doctors, scientists, serious journalists etc will have glasses as their no. 1 prop in order to look the part. The seductive look is often combined with the intellectual look -intellectually hot? Incredibly popular on the TV as it allows the viewer to believe there is nothing but science and maths going on in a character's head until their night-time alter-ego appears...

The third look can be called simply gormless. Generally accompanied by a flycatcher mouth and a constant forefinger flick on the bridge of the nose to shove the glasses back into position, this look (which in films would feature bottle-bottom glasses) can combine with neither sexy or intellectual, no matter how hard the wearer tries. Of course, as I appealed for help from my maths tutor in that lesson, the latter was the look which fell upon my  face like a favourite glove, and I realised in that instant that all the study in the world would never improve what was inside, the glasses confirmed what I have maybe always known. Inside of me is a gormless numpty who may forever chase the golden egg that is the maths GCSE! Watch this space come late August...

So my followers (if indeed anyone is truly reading this tripe) I leave you for the time being.

Happy days, Lucy!