OUR bespectacled third son had his annual opticians check last week, and decided on his new ‘look’ for the next 12 months.
Billy is remarkably stoical about having to wear specs, and is much better at it than I was at his age.
I feel guilty that so far he’s the only one to have inherited my rugby-ball shaped eyeballs – or double astigmatism, to give it the proper terminology.
It doesn’t help that his dad is just as squinty. Bloke appears to be ignoring the fact his eyes are getting worse with age, as he has now perfected the middle-aged man trick of peering under or over his glasses to look at things close up, refusing to just admit defeat and get bifocals.
Meanwhile Billy looks forward to seeing the nice Eye Doctor Lady, because he gets to wear the freaky glasses with the different lenses and compete to read as many letters as possible.
On odd occasions, Billy has expressed a certain sorrow at having to wear glasses, but it’s not because he gets teased, it’s because they annoy him. Sometimes they pinch his nose, and rub, and he has to takes them off for sport.
When it comes to choosing frames though, he’s bold (once he knows trying to get me to agree to Star Wars frames is futile). As much as I tried to steer him towards something light, he wants the heaviest-looking 1960s Michael Caine frames he can find.
So here he is trying on his new NHS specs. And yes, I’ll admit it, I’ve relented, and ordered him some very cool prescription sunglasses with a Star Wars frame too.