My eye! Eye will certainly have to be less enthusiastic about my spare time reading from now on. Eye really put my foot in it. As I waited in a rather wide doorway last week, I chatted to a friend. Other people passed by and to each I said 'goodbye' and exchanged pleasantries. To my friend I waxed lyrical about a passage I had read in Henry Mayhew's 19th century book about London's working poor. Intrigued by his first hand accounts from the mouths of the poor themselves, I had read a piece quoting a glass eye maker. It is a super piece and it illustrates the plight of those who lost an eye in Victorian times. As the glass eye maker was a profitable business, it seems that losing one's real eye was a common occurrence. He says, that to a poor person, a glass eye was a real necessity for no one would employ a person with an empty eye socket. He describes the glass eyes en-mass for inspection and the variations in qualities between them. It really is a poignant piece. It's not my fault that I find it ever so slightly funny, is it?
There I was then, describing the passage to my friend when who should walk by and stop to chat but Frank. Of course he heard the tail end of the tale. Of course Frank has a glass eye. Of course I tactfully steered away from the subject. Of course not. I tried, I really tried, but somehow every second word which fell from my lips had something to do with 'seeing him on Wednesday' 'looking forward to the weekend' and more. I couldn't have been less tactful if I had actually written a script and rehearsed it.
Reminded of an event from several years ago made me blush all the way home. A friend of my brother-in-law, studying with him at a local university, came to stay. A beautiful day, we decided that a barbecue would be fun, feed all of us and best of all, the guys could cook.
Something terrible had happened to brother-in-laws friend. His dad had been discovered, discretely wrapped in carpet, tucked neatly away under the garden fence where he had lain for quite some time. It transpired that friend's family had suffered terribly at this man's hands and during one last and awful altercation, he had been battered to death. Our friend had not missed his dad, believing him to be working in the far eastern oil fields. When he rang home, his mum would say
'oh, you've just missed your dad, he is flying back in half an hour', or
'Dad won't be home for Christmas, the station needs to be manned'. Needless to say, our friend had received a terrible shock. I felt that it was my duty as a friend and a Christian to welcome him to our home and be of as much comfort as we could be.
Back to the barbecue. The boys went out to play in the local public house and my husband and I prepared the meal and we waited. And we waited. And we waited. And eventually we cooked it and we ate it. Keeping some for the bother-in-law and our guest, we left the charcoal glowing for as long as possible. Eventually the meat was too charred to be of any use and in a fit of pique I threw it over the fence into the field beyond.
Home came brother-in-law and friend, staggering gamely in through the back gate and demonstrating how well they could stand on one leg after downing ten pints of lager between them.
'Where's me dinner?' asked hungry friend
'Down there' I said. 'Interred at the bottom of the garden where it deserves to be'.
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