Saturday, 5 February 2011
They say you spend something like twenty-five years of your life sleeping, three months shaving, and a month or so queueing at Waitrose. I often wonder how many weeks I will have spent searching for my glasses by the time I set my burden down. Bashing angrily about this tiny flat like a wasp in a matchbox as I try to locate the damn things certainly occupies a fair chunk of each day. Yesterday morning, five minutes before it was time to leave the house, I realised my distance pair were nowhere in evidence and began the usual hunt, getting increasingly ratty as I failed to turn them up. Eventually I had to go to work with my readers on. It was like spending the day under water.
On getting home in the evening I searched anew in obvious places such as the windowsill, the kitchen worktop and on and under the coffee tables, then in silly places like behind the speakers, in the rubbish drawer among the board markers, junk mail, pen tops, candle stubs and loose batteries, then in the bloody fridge. I stripped the bed and shook out the stacks of cushions and pillows that are piled on it. Zilch. This morning I repeated the entire procedure from sills to upholstery and then gave up, deciding they must have fallen down a wormhole to another universe where an alternative Me was now able to see clearly the large object on the roof of the house opposite, which I knew could not be a vulture but which so very closely resembled one. I set my readers on the windowsill, got out the vac and hoovered the living room. On finishing, I turned to put my specs on again and sod me if both pairs were not now side by side on the sill like the two little dicky-birds sat upon a wall.
I stared at them for a moment, gobsmacked. I know the distance pair was not there when I started hoovering, and I also know that they must have been, or how else...? On the phone my mother, a dogged believer in apports and the continued concern of deceased relatives for our well-being in this sublunary world, suggested that one or the other of my grandmas had dropped by to help, to which my reply was brief and blunt. The true explanation will be dull and prosaic but I cannot supply it, given that the windowsill is always the first place I look and I had looked several times in the past twenty-four hours.
There is no vulture on the roof opposite either, unfortunately. It was just a metal flue cowl in the dawn light, looking bigger and fuzzier about the edges than it really is.
I'll accept the apport theory if the fifty euro note I've just discovered is gone from my jacket pocket is restored to me.