Specsavers was pretty amazing, a ridiculously efficient production line of scanner/ophthalmologist/consultant/cashier. They dealt with me with an efficiency I’d never experienced before and yet thanks to the honestly nice scanner guy and the deeply odd ophthalmologist I still felt loved as a customer. I was really impressed by the technology, both in their use of it and what it can actually do; the chap operating the scanners reckons that ten years hence all the actual work will be done by the machines and the ophthalmologist himself will just be on hand in case of problems.
Anyway, I’m more blind than before but not alarmingly so, and need new specs. While the whole affair could have been had for as little as £35, parents were paying and happy to spend on snazzier frames and lenses, so £103 for my sexy new pair, which I can pick up… tomorrow, before my dentist’s appointment. \o/
Then to the coach station (via the post office and posting of a certain book to Lowri) and onto the coach to Brummagem. Which was murderously hot so I asked the driver to turn the heating down… he turned the AC on instead. So, chilled head but ankles still a-roasting, and twice as much energy burning. Lovely and efficient, eh?
Three people accosted me on my way from coach station to New Street:
“Hey, do you know the way to the service station?”
“Sorry mate, stranger here myself.”
“Eh, fair dos.”
“mumblemumble strange words?”
“mumblegabble unknown language expectantly extended palm?”
“I don’t have any change. Sorry.”
“Scuse me, mate?”
“You know that song that goes… nuh nuh nuh whoaaaaaaaaaaoaaa what I’d do without you?”
“I… I don’t.”
Familiar train ride, trotted back to TC through the utter ghost town of a university on holidays, let myself into my empty flat. Not as cold as I was expecting… Someone had left the boiler on. I think I managed to disable it; I hope it won’t explode. Found my passport, mac, shaver, etc, packed into bag with big book o’strategy and went back through the empty campus as it started snowing (what).
Found myself with more than an hour to kill in central Bromingham so I bought a cuppa and a godtier bacon sarnie from the green “Noms of the Bullring” van and sat rereading Web, starting properly on Seven Tenths and waiting for my coach to come. Which gave me an idea for a short story on seismography (!), perhaps to be posted tomorrow alongside a (possibly) less deeply tedious life update.