On losing your eyesight
I was up in that London the other day, wearing the suit with the trousers that keep falling down, attending a conference where three of the most powerful men in British broadcasting punched the crap out of each other as an excited gallery wagered thousands in side bets.
Or, they could have just said a few rude things about each other. Memory's shot.
It was while I was on my way to this rather plush event at the Waldorf Hilton just off The Strand, that I realised, at the age of 41 and a bit, that my eyes just aren't what they once were.
As the The Best of Eighties Cheese 12-inch Remix Collection Volume Three pulsed through the headphones of my mp3 player, I was met by the following delightful vision, which played out thussly in my internal dialogue*
100 yards: Oh-ho! Shexxxy, shexxxy lady at twelve o'clock! OGLE MODE SET TO ON.
90 yards: Actually, nice legs
80 yards: And great hair, too. TARGETING COMPUTER SET TO NORKS
70 yards: Ok, maybe not such nice legs.
60 yards: Good God, bloody horrible legs. And that's clearly a wig
50 yard: Actually, maybe she's not as shexxxy as I might have thought
40 yard: Or even at all
30 yards: Five o'clock shadow alert.
20 yards: Oh God, it's a moose. And those norks appear to be a pair of socks stuffed up a canary yellow strappy top.
10 yards: No, actually... It's a man. In a miniskirt.
5 yards: In fact, she …err… he's trying to talk to me
3 yards: "Buy The Big Issue, guv?"
1 yard: ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!
10 yards, steadily increasing: "No. No thanks, bloke."
My guide dog fitting is next week.
* It's like an internal monologue, except there's two of us in here