I first realised that I needed glasses when I was about fifteen. The horrible penny dropped during mass one Sunday when I looked up and noticed that the priest had gone blurry. I was impressed at first. Wow, I thought; I didn’t know they could do that. But then I noticed that the altar boys had lost some of their definition too. A sweaty-palmed trip to the optician confirmed the worst. I would need to go from two eyes to four and could rest assured that no girl would ever speak to me again as long as I lived. My first pair of specs were exactly like Ronnie Corbett’s, only grey. Soon they were exactly like Ronnie Corbett’s, only grey with one arm superglued permanently open (the wee screw fell out and I panicked). It wouldn’t have mattered what they looked like, of course. I would have hated them anyway. But people change. We grow, we evolve, we mature, we stop letting our parents pick our glasses. Over the years I’ve gradually come to terms with the old goggles and have even had a pair or two that I was quite fond of. For one thing, they make an excellent prop, which is more than can be said for contact lenses. Lenses may not steam up in the rain and it’s very difficult to accidentally sit on them, but you can’t look over the top of them while saying something sarcastic. You can’t chew on the end of them while pretending to be thoughtful. You can’t take them off and shake your hair down, thus revealing yourself to be a beautiful woman after all. Hmmm. Note to self: work on examples.