Protesting Airports

Apparently my new coat makes me look like an airport protester.

I say 'new', I stole it out of my brother's wardrobe (oh yeah, by the way, is it alright if I borrow your coat Kieran? Cheers) and it was bought from an army surplus store before that so 'new' it is not. 'Kind of stinky' it is.

Still though, it's perfect for this 'end-of-the-world-is-nigh' summer we've been enjoying. Long enough so I don't flash my gusset when I'm wearing mini's and bending over to pick up whatever item has fallen out of my bag this time* (I'm constantly dropping things of late, I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting clumsier or if my hands are getting slippy-ier - either way the signs for the sort of person I'm becoming ain't pointing any direction good. The worst was when I was in Marks and Spencer's the other day and managed to drop a two-pound coin down the side of the scanner. As Danny pointed out, I'm like those old people in Sainsburys who drop five pence change down the side of the till and make you spend three hours retrieving it because 'that might come in handy later'. We got it back in the end but having held up the busy lunchtime shoppers behind me for a good ten minutes I now have bad queue karma for the next six months)... back to coat... it's also got a hood which is great for those intermittent showers that keep trying (and winning) to make the world think Frizzease was never invented, and yet it's also light enough so I don't look like I've been showering at 12:36 in the afternoon when in fact I'm just drenched with sweat.

All with the added bonus that I end up looking like an airport protester (By the way, in case you didn't catch the memo, I'm bringing grunge back. We know this for certain now because more and more plaid keeps appearing in my wardrobe. Justin brought the sexy, I'm bringing the grunge. I like the keep the world in balance schee.)

However, today I couldn't find my coat. Despite being one of the tidiest people God ever created I have a habit of putting things down wherever I may (tidily of course) and then losing them at the critical moment, this meant I had to wear my 70's green carpet coat instead.

My 70's green carpet coat did NOT go with my outfit. Now my clothing mojo was thrown all out of whack. This is a turn of events that happens rarely (surprisingly) but when it does it seriously affects my ability to function in the world (as we all know I have enough trouble with this at the best of times anyway so anything that adds to my ineptness is something to be avoided at all costs). In times of yore I've been known to text Chloe because my trousers didn't go with my coat and I needed her to bring me a new pair onto campus. I have fashion OCD.

But anyway, point is, I wasn't in the best of moods as I entered the opticians (I was also fifteen minutes LATE, which is something my control freakish tendancies finds very hard to deal with, due to me desperately searching for airport protestor coat, failing, running out of the house when I realised how late I was making myself all for a dammed stinky Swampy coat, running BACK into the house when I realised I'd forgotten my passport application which was the other main reason for me summoning up enough energy to leave the house, running back out of the house already starting to work up a fairly impressive amount of sweat given that I was wearing a coat which was too heavy for the weather). Where was I? Ah yes, already the optician despises me (I've decided). Then, as she sits me down in the wacky in-and-out-of-focus-picture-of-an-air-balloon machine (WHAT DOES IT DO? WHY THE AIR BALLOON?) (Wait, I've just remembered I don't care) I ask if I'm supposed to be wearing my contacts...
'Erm.. No' [voice tone starting to play into my paranoia that she hates me and my wacky outfit]
We look at each other for a moment too long. The silence gets uncomfortable.
'Right. I have nothing to put them in to... I thought this was just a contact lens check-up'
'Well you need that and a proper eye test'
'Ok. No-one told me that on the phone. Can we do both now?'
'If you want to'
Please optician lady. Please don't ask me questions like that. I just want you to tell me what to do. Sit here. Look at this. Look up, look down. Now leave.
'Well, I guess so. If you think I should?'
'You are due to have a proper eye test'
'So that's a yes?'

We look at each other without saying anything again. I don't remember how the uncommunicative, passive, unable-to-make-a-decision duo managed to escape this conversational stalemate but we eventually did. The end result being that I had to come back in an hour for the second part of my test. But oh dear Lord. I haven't had one of those for a loooong time and I'd forgotten what they consist of...

We've already established that I can't make decisions or take control right? That's on the table.

What is the ONE thing you're supposed to be able to do in an eye test proper?

Make decisions.

'Is it better with one or with two?'
'It's... erm... one, NO! Two. Two, yes'
'Sure?'
[NO!] 'Well, they're both, I can't really tell the difference'
'Ok'
'Is it better with this or without'
[LADY I DON'T KNOW] 'With?' [Is it?? THIS IS GOING TO AFFECT YOU DIRECTLY SAZZ! CONCENTRATE. WHAT IS SHE WRITING DOWN? DID I GET THE ANSWER WRONG?]
'How about now? Better with one, or with two?'
[Oh. My. God. I have NO freaking idea but I can't keep saying it's the same or she'll think I'm nuts]
'Err... one?'
'Oh. Hmm...'
['Hmmm'? 'HMMM'? WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN? THAT MEANS I GOT IT WRONG DOESN'T IT? Oh Jesus!]
Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum.

So, apparently, my eyes are worse, my prescription has changed. Has it actually changed? Or was I just getting so annoyed that I couldn't make a descion that I told her it was better with the wrong lenses and now I'm going to be straining me eyes so much that I get constant headaches and manage to convince myself that I have a brain tumour? Only time will tell.

*I'd like to point out that I don't actually exist purely within a Benny Hill sketch. The gusset I'm flashing ain't no gusset anyone wants to see.**
**Sweet Jesus, I can't believe I just wrote that. I'm sorry for making you be sick in your mouths.***
***I'm sort of not.