578: Tom Waits in Specsavers, Kevin waits in Specsavers

I'm in Specsavers, or I was, I'm not now. Suspend your disbelief if you can. I'm in Specsavers, and they told me I would have to wait fifty minutes. Then they said maybe sixty, but they might try and get me in early if I could refrain from spilling apple juice on the carpet and scrawling wax crayon on the walls. I need new glasses. That's why I was there. Sitting in the back of the shop, staring out into the distance, out of the door and across the Arndale to the pound shop. Watching the other poor-sighted people stretching their weary legs. I wasn't watching anyone, I was reading a book. About all the elements of the periodic table. The building blocks of you and me and everything in between and everywhere else too.

There was music on. First there was that I wanna be a Dord, I want to be adored by the Manchester band whose name I can't remember right now, but I understand they were very popular. Then there was another song by that other Manchester band, you know the shit one everyone likes. Oasis. Then I wasn't listening to the music anymore because, you know, Oasis. Then I thought I was being called in but it was just to get my retinas photographed by a friendly trainee optician. Later the big boss optician would show me those photographers and compliment me on a nice set of blind spots. My shoes were dusty from the stock room at work, and I had a carrier bag with some books and a half eaten Eccles cake.

Some people who arrived probably thirty minutes after I did went in to see the optician before me. Every other person waiting received occasional personal apologies for the long wait, Mr Smith, sorry about your wait, Mr. Mohammad, apologies for the delay, don't worry, you're next, Mr Almqvist, sorry sorry sorry. This is outrageous I thought, then I had a little nap. Instead of making a little complaint -excuse me but I would like to be seen this week- I convinced myself that the people arriving after and being seeing before me had made appointments in advance. I started this blog post in the present tense, and made a point of pointing out the point, and at some point since then I have slipped into past tense.

The optician was nice. See said my glasses were scratched but my eyes were healthy and not getting any worse. When she shined a light in through my pupils and peered at the retina I asked if she could see my brain. She said, no, that's a bit further back and she couldn't see cos she didn't have her glasses on. She didn't say that, but I just thought it would have been a little bit funny if she had. She just said, no, I'm looking at your retinas. When the tests were all done and my prescription was printed she pressed a button and a little man came running in through the door -he wasn't little, he was considerably taller than I am- and started giving me sales pitches and all that. I extricated myself, not wishing to go through the faff of picking new frames. But back I'll need to go soon enough.

Oh, I forgot to mention that while waiting, an age after Oasis was played, I was surprised to hear a Tom Waits song. Hence the title of this blog post. It wouldn't have made much sense if I hadn't mentioned it now, would it. Jockey Full of Bourbon.