A Pair of Glasses, by Peter Morford

It’s fascinating the way memory works. A glimpse, a casual word, a scent – especially a scent – and our brains flip back in time to things we thought we had forgotten.

            “A pair of glasses” naturally takes me back to the first time I had to wear them.  I saw the leaves on the trees for the first time in years. It almost made up for the realisation that I was a perfect physical specimen no longer.

            Opticians invite us to choose a frame “to suit your personality” Should they say “choose a frame to change your personality”?

            I say this because we often judge a stranger by his eye-wear. Formal horn-rims suggest maturity, a certain seriousness, professionalism. And then we remember the public figures, mainly entertainers.  What’s serious about Woody Allen, Eric Morecambe, Harry Worth, The Two Ronnies, Peter Sellers, Groucho Marx et al.?

            Come in Michael Caine in the Len Deighton thrillers.

            I remember my eccentric grandmother.  She was a black-dressed Victorian relic. She wore button-boots. When she lost her button-hook she would have the whole family searching the house for it.

            Putting on her gold-rimmed glasses was a two handed job. They had tiny lenses and the arms were springy question-mark things which had to be carefully wound round the ears. When she pulled them off with a vigorous tug the earpiece would whip back into shape.

                        Talking of shapes and types – can you ever see rimless little lenses without seeing a sinister Donald Pleasance in one of his nastier roles? Worse still, think Himmler. His glasses gave him the face of The Final Solution.         

            Think Monocle and Patrick Moore.  Lorgnettes bring us Edith Evans and

“A haaaand ..baaaag”

                        Haiti’s heavily-armed Tonton Macoute thugs hid their eyes behind mirrored sunglasses.

                        And what do sunglasses do for actresses but give them an air of mystery? Where are those eyes looking? Can they see anything in this gloomy night-club? Are they going to wear them in the sea?

                        I used to work for an accountant. One day, the Senior Partner deigned to address me.

            “George,” he said. He was never very good with names. “George, if you want to get on in the Firm, I suggest you tidy yourself up.  Find a better tailor.  And get rid of those awful National Health spectacles.”

            Spending more than I could afford, I followed his advice.

            “That’s better,” he said later. “It gives you more gravitas when you’re advising our clients.”

            A year or two later I wanted to buy a house. After skirmishes with various Building Societies I finally got the loan on condition that I increased my deposit.

            As I had spent all my money it occurred to me that some furniture would still be useful. I duly made a Saturday morning appointment with the Bank Manager.

            There he was, sports jacketed in honour of the relaxed day.

            “So you want a short term loan?” he said distastefully. “For what purpose?”

            “I need furniture.”

            He aimed his heavy glasses and nose at me. “How much, pray?”

            I gave him a figure.   He looked aghast at such extravagance. He composed himself.

            “What is your security?”

            “I have just bought a house on a mortgage.”

            He pressed a bell and a minion came running. “Bring Mr Baker’s bank details.”

            He peered suspiciously at the file, then at me. He tut-tutted over some detail which he marked with his pencil and seemed to be spending a long time in deep thought. Here was a worried man protecting the Bank from extravagant home-buyers.

            And then, to my relief he looked up from the bothersome pages and gave me his form of a smile. “I can authorise it this time,” he said, as he started to fill in a long form.           

            “The loan will have to be repaid in six months.”

            I agreed.  “Sign here… and here… and here oh, and here,”

            He stuffed the papers into a manila envelope, got me to sign across the seal and sellotaped over my mark. I was free to go furniture hunting.

            Some-time after that a girl friend asked me to send her a photograph of myself. I duly posed in a Foto-Me kiosk and, without my glasses, took 8 identical shots. I then did a rather childish thing which I’m sure no-one in this room would do. I drew on each image.  I added various combinations of moustache, glasses, beard, whiskers, hair and silly hats. Her reaction to this artwork has influenced my appearance to this day.

            You could say that there is more to glasses than meets the eye but that would be too cornea pun.