Visit to the Optometrist

Yesterday it was a visit to the dentist. Today I went to the Optometrist. The motivation was that,through advancing age, (notice I have been banned from using the word old until I reach 80) one is acutely aware of the diminish state in all areas of ones body. The legs ache, the back has its days and the head, oh the head, where do I start. Well let's start with the eyes and my reason to having my eyes tested.
If I have a bias, it's towards my Optician, my lovely daughter who adds to her list of querulous oldies by taking me in !! Opticians today are a fast food business with gadgets to blow puffs of air in your eyes and then blind you by taking a flash photo of the eyeball, and that's before you are ushered into the "expert". 


Every subjective opinion as to whether that image is 'clearer' or, has more 'definition', it's always a matter of degree. 
It is of course "your degree", "your opinion" based on what you contend you actually see. I use the word contend because every thing is 'conditional' and try as you might the question of, "is that better or worse", is not easily answered.
I happened to use the word, "it seem to have a better contrast" to describe the image I was seeing, but this is outside the vocabulary of the pressured practitioner since it evokes a whole new set of parameters from a "is it clearer or less clear" dialogue they wish to peruse.
In the hands of an expert we are easily brow beaten into submission and try to guess what they would find acceptable.
"I think that's clearer" is a no no. I "think" ! What does that mean. Black or white is the answer they are after with no shades of grey. "Can I see through that other lens, the one before the last one". Why ? "Well I thought it might be clearer". Might, what do you mean might ? The eyes mist over or is it perhaps the brain shutting down as a matter of protection. Look to the right, look to the left, dyslectic one quivers a millimetre the wrong way but in a torment of indecision, not understanding clarity from definition and defiantly not venturing into the realm of contrast one is terrified to look the wrong way. It's the same when asked to look at her right ear and then at her left ear. One is pained to point out that the equipment now obscures that ear. It would be churlish to mention this, it would only diminish the patient in the practitioners eye.
I wonder what they, the practitioners eyes are like. Clearer this way or that, or are all patients just seen as myopic and batty.
 

The son who never came back.

A sea of veterans matching on to the sound of the band, on to the swirl of the pipes, on to a distant memory of fallen comrades. The bands play the well worn soldiers songs who respond with one voice singing the songs they sang when moving down the road leading to the trenches. A deep bond built into and between them, born of fear and tribulation a fellowship which can not be broken, an alliance of the living for the dead.
 It's a funny thing the past. It holds our memories of the actual life we lived, along with memories and aspirations of the life we wished to have lived. The people we knew and thought we knew the dreams of attainment the attachment and the dis entanglement of relationships, these are all the province of the mature citizen and whilst today the spotlight is on the fighting men and latterly women, their memories dismembered by the acute strain put on these people, people who were asked to risk their lives, but who came from a class of people, the amateur, out of character since these men were largely conscripted from civilian life.
 The act of living is the act of dying and between these two posts our memories are the fabric of who we are. They reflect our passage and, if we are sufficiently at ease with them they amount to who we are and the standards we hold, therefore memories are important.
Maturity has, of right, plenty to draw on. Youth, still girding its loins, will fight the battles and gain the experience which will, in the end, identify that person.
One of the reasons we ask our youth to wait and harness its time and energy is that 'improvisation' is not enough to run anything. 

Littered with memories

A sea of veterans matching on to the sound of the band, on to the swirl of the pipes, on to a distant memory of fallen comrades. The bands play the well worn soldiers songs who respond with one voice singing the songs they sang when moving down the road leading to the trenches. A deep bond built into and between them, born of fear and tribulation a fellowship which can not be broken, an alliance of the living for the dead.
 It's a funny thing the past. It holds our memories of the actual life we lived, along with memories and aspirations of the life we wished to have lived. The people we knew and thought we knew the dreams of attainment the attachment and the dis entanglement of relationships, these are all the province of the mature citizen and whilst today the spotlight is on the fighting men and latterly women, their memories dismembered by the acute strain put on these people, people who were asked to risk their lives, but who came from a class of people, the amateur, out of character since these men were largely conscripted from civilian life.
 The act of living is the act of dying and between these two posts our memories are the fabric of who we are. They reflect our passage and, if we are sufficiently at ease with them they amount to who we are and the standards we hold, therefore memories are important.
Maturity has, of right, plenty to draw on. Youth, still girding its loins, will fight the battles and gain the experience which will, in the end, identify that person. 

One of the reasons we ask our youth to wait and harness its time and energy is that 'improvisation' is not enough to run anything. 

A bridge leading to Wales.

Setting out on a journey can be a daunting task especially if there is more that one person going on the trip.
Luggage is the first dilemma facing the party since there is no doubt, men and women differ as to what they need when away. Men are usually pretty casual about packing and welcome the freedom from the dress code that work imposes by taking the bare minimum. 

Women on the other hand pack everything plus the kitchen sink in the belief that they must be able to meet all eventualities and evaluate these eventualities by including the full range of female support gear which a woman needs to meet fellow humans. The disguise she adopts between the bedroom and her exit from the front door is remarkable and there are few women who would travel light. 
The next issue is the time to depart. Now this is again where the men and women differ.
A man who has unburdened himself from the routine of the daily commute wishes fervently to avoid the rush hour traffic and suggests an early start since an early start will get him sooner to his destination where he can begin to relax (remember he is probably going to do the driving).
The women on the other hand has the not inconsiderable task of getting ready and so an early start is probably not on.
At a ratio of three items to one her suitcase weighs a ton and, with the other "must have" items accompanying the suitcase the car boot is soon full.
With the cheery comment that he will buy some gear when he gets there he satisfies himself with his shaving kit and the camera, anything to get the show on the road.
Have you pumped up the tires, is there water in the screen washer, when did you last check the oil, a Nasa Apollo countdown procedure comes to mind as the questions are fired until the, "drive on" command is given. The last salvo is probably, did you turn off the heating as you pull around the bend on the start of the journey.
There will be the necessary pit stops, for food and at least one or two for bladder relief. What ever you do don't ask for any map reading advice since direction and car sickness seem to run together. But we're off and these minor irritations are soon smoothed out as the open road induces drowsiness in the copilot and the car quietly  settles down to consume the miles and the petrol in equal amounts. 

In my distant youth it was invariably the first sighting of Blackpool Tower that heralded our destination (a little later, the first sight of the Med and later still the Indian Ocean) now it's the bridge leading into Wales !!

To blog or not to blog,that is the question.

Like an active child, my mind hops around to explore this or that issue and gives me the opportunity to express these thoughts in my blog.
The blog is a mind saver since it forces the casual observer to supplement his opinion with some sort of reflective process on the causes of what he sees or hears.
Every problem, every apparent success has a background which reflects many constituents, many forces and cultural differences, each has a reason for effecting the course of events and with prejudice, free to evolve we are all on a learning curve.
The act of expressing an opinion makes the intelligent person ask of them-self, what they would do if the roles were reversed. Under those conditions there is a natural softening of the way we might criticise things and the process of writing and sometimes reading is cathartic.

Some people would say that words are a poor relative of action and that writing about something is pretty esoteric which of course it can be but, raising an issue and writing about it has the chance that the publicity will be the fuel to combust a flame in others.

 

Ode to the gods.

To live is to suffer anxiety.
A crimson sun broke through the clouds chasing the shadows bringing warmth where previously non existed. A new day, a day which could be full of tribulations of innuendo and criticism or a day full of cheer of friendly banter and support. It's all in the lap of the gods. 

How useful those gods were each with a definite clearly defined purpose each held responsible. If something went wrong, you knew where the problem lay the god of so and so had been made angry by some sleight and the repair was in your hands in the form of a prayer or an offering. Specific responsibility lay elsewhere not, per se, on your own shoulders !
Now we are our own god we understand that it's all our own fault and the blame stops here. There is only one solution and it lays in our own hands. Imagine the weight of responsibility that thrusts on our shoulders. To be at fault for much of our demise to carry the shame of our own ineptitude to slink under the threat of more ridicule, this is the result of casting off the image we had of gods and the part they played in our lives !

at the dentist.

Has Wales upset the gods, it's always crying (raining) here !!
I have just returned from the dentist and have a mouth deadened by Novocain. Being a canny Yorkshireman, I won't be going for a pint for fear of spilling the precious liquid, sacrilegious !!
Visiting the Dentist was in the past fraught with the fear - we were going to be hurt by the things a dentist has to do to do his job.
I go back to the 40s/50s when, because I had some sort of deficiency, it caused my teeth to deteriorate and a visit to the dentist was something I had to bear. In those days before the advent of high speed drills and effective pain killers the whole process was unpleasant.

My Dad, before the war told of an extraction he had without pain killers. Not much money around he thought he would save money on the gas, which in those days was the method of relieving the pain. The dentist took hold with his extraction tool (pliers in lay-man language) and began to pull. As the tooth loosened so did the pain and down he went in the chair lower and lower shrinking from the cause of the pain, he ended up on the floor with the dentist in pursuit.

In my case it was the exposure to the vibration of a belt driven, slow revolution drill bit as he hacked away at the enamel,or from the gas mask which was clamped on full face, no soothing conversation to put you at ease, the dentist, a big chap compared to me a little chap, simply held it in place as I struggled to get air and only got gas !!! 

No a visit to the dentist usually filled one with dread.

Modern dentistry is a far cry from those days. The interaction between the dentist and the patient is based on the trust we place in him not to hurt. From the discussion of what he is going to do in the treatment, to the subtle approach of the needle from behind so you only catch a late view as it enters the mouth. "Does that hurt" was not in the vocabulary of my childhood dentist but your comfort is paramount with today's compassionate, business savvy professional.