Short, Fat and Blind as a Bat

I've discussed the subject of ageing on this blog before. The author of the blog you're reading is a perpetual teenager aged 45. In his mind he's a wrinkle free, hirsute young man with a lust for life. In the mirror he's a scabby, greying middle aged dude whose hirsuteness has gravitated south to his back, but still has a lust for life. The problem is that when he indulges that lust he often suffers prematurely and goes for an early bath.

The Subversive Runner looks in a mirror....and sees a Subversive Runner looking in a mirror.

Every time I visit the supermarket (which is often) I like to use those self-service checkouts. I'm not sure why but I suspect it's to keep my hand in should my employment with the London Fire Brigade be terminated and I seek a future clad in a uniform with 'Asda' emblazoned on it.

In my basket I usually have goods that prompt the self-service machine to say: 'Authorisation Required' (despite receiving no pay rise for three years I pay for said goods, Antony Wozza Thompson).

When the dude with the magic card arrives; swipes the machine and the screen that says 'the customer is clearly over 25' appears, I expect to be asked for ID...............it never happens. And I'm mortally wounded every time.
This delusion was brought into sharp focus this week when other things became seriously blurred. Let me provide you with some background:

In my desperate clamour to disguise my own physical, mental and emotional shortcomings I've been known to highlight other people's foibles in order to take the heat off Yours Truly. Mrs Mac's myopia has prompted me to call her 'Specky,' 'Geggy,' and 'Bicycle Face,' followed by a brag that I've got 20/20 vision.

However, I think that 45 years of eyeball use, 30 years of looking at porn, and getting continually punched in the head may have had an unfortunate effect on my vision. This was proven to me the other day after being at work in South Chelsea and discovering I could no longer read printed call slips. Printed call slips are the messages that indicate the nature of the incident and its location. As I directed my driver to an area that was geographically remote to the incident, and he over-rode my instruction because he could read said call-slip, I realised that the chickens may have arrived home to roost....that karma was in operation......that I was getting my cumuppence.

I'm short, fat and blind as a bat.

I've yet to submit to an eye test but maybe this explains why I've found night-time driving increasingly difficult recently.

This leaves me with something of a quandary. If I'm to become a specky, bicycle face, what gegs should I go for?

John Lennon round ones?

Buddy Holly style NHS jobs?

Modern square ones?

I'm not sure and I'm still hoping that my myopia might be a sort lived result of getting smashed in the head by Mason (dog) the other day. The little fella's extreme power was proven to me when he simply moved while on my bed and his elbow hit me in the mouth.

The sharp pain, coppery taste of blood trickling down my throat, and rapidly swelling lip demonstrated that he remains a born in blood fighting dog.

But a lovely one.

When my lip has returned to normal and my eyesight remains blurred I'll consider a journey to the specktician.

Until then I'm looking in that mirror.

Laters.