I went shopping for a cocktail outfit to wear to L's wedding. A grim task.

It seems that manufacturers assume that as a woman ages she will grow bigger, taller and huskier: so, what may have been suitable are in quite immense sizes.

In smaller sizes, the clothes were short, strapless, ruched, rhinestoned, glittery and garish, and looked as if designed for ladyboys, rather than for nice young women. Poor girls: how fortunate was I to be young in the age of Courreges et al.

All that was left were indistict dark print, shapeless, loose things that looked suitable to wear at the Bide-a-Wee Distressed Gentlefolks free afternoon teas and fellowship. And they would do for intermittent funerals, as well.

I ended up longing for a naqib. With an extra opening - I imagine it rather like a post office slot - for a little discreet imbibing.

He approached me like Santa opening his Christmas sack, and slipped the glasses over my nose.

Immediately his face loomed huge, covered with deep, unsightly pores. I could see each angle the razor had taken as it clipped his whiskers. The lines of his face turned to furrows.

"Um", I said, unwilling to throw cold water on his glee, and trying not to recoil. But, there was no doubt that the world looked better without these specs.
"Read this, " he said triumphantly. "I can read it without the glasses," was the truth, though I tried to soften it for him.

Why did I get them, anyway? Well, I thought it was about time, and there is no doubt that I can't read the fine print that I used to.

Truth is, the $2 shop ones that someone gave me do a better job.

"If you read much without glasses you would get headaches," he said.

Right. I only read 4 or 5 books a week, so I will try not to read more. I'm assuming that web hours don't count.

It seems to me that all kinds of perfectly fit and able people assume that their eyes are a bodypart that will fail them at an early age? Why is this?

Once upon a time I had a poem published in Quadrant. It was the first and only poem I have ever submitted - just as the 1st novel I submitted was published. I didn't pursue either path: maybe I felt I had had my share of fortune, or maybe it's the fact that I am just not ambitious.

I actually remember little of the poem, - and, don't seem to have a copy - except for the title "Takeaway Soulfood", which the then editor, Les Murray, rejected and replaced. Dear Les: I've always been so fond of him: a man with a profound, light and loving touch on the landscape; a kindly, bitter, poignant view of us, including himself.

This small poem was written because I found Europe to be crass, immensely materialistic, aggressively competitive, and blood soaked.

This is not a popular opinion.

Myth is, that despite the multimillions of their fellow Europeans that they have slaughtered in less than 100 years, that Europe is a source of reason and culture.
Myth is, that despite the cruel and depraved male and church dominated history of the last few hundred years, that Europe is a centre of reason and culture.

These are not myths that I subscribe to.