A behind the ear crisis looms

I’ve lost my contact lenses. Not just one pair, but three months’ supply. They come through the letterbox in an extremely sturdy postal box which needs specialised cutting gear to get into, so they usually sit on the kitchen table with the other un-dealt with mail until such time as I am motivated, usually by desperation, to hack into the box. Like this morning at breakfast. Prompted by finally opening a tea-stained letter from the optician which has been used as a mug mat for a few days, I dropped my porridge spoon in horror and started groping at the table as if blind and trying to locate something.

“Where’s that box of lenses?”

“What box of lenses?”

“The one that’s been sitting here for ages. I’m on to my last pair…”

I dramatically touched the spot of the last known sighting with my hand as if to spiritually connect with the missing box. It didn’t work.

“Serves you right,” said the spouse, “you’re always leaving things everywhere. If it’s not bloody lenses, it’s piles of cack from that handbag of yours.”

I had to agree. I’ve now got 24 days to find that missing package before I have to go to work with my Mrs Magoo glasses on, propped up on one side at a jaunty 10 degrees to the horizontal.

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