Monday 5 October

The beginning of my birthday week and like Mr Scruff, my tailor (who presents me with a brand new DJ to mark my 36th) I determine to keep it real. Although off work, I go about my chores as usual – anything but face the (real/metaphorical) blank page/blank cheque that represent my much-delayed literary career. However, when Miss Jordan reminds me that I have an optician’s appointment at lunchtime I get a stomach-based feeling not dissimilar to that encountered on my 6th birthday when a giant horse-fat jelly was delivered to my boarding school, fresh from Uncle Horace’s glue factory. Yes, an appointment with the eye people is always a lot more exciting than it should be to someone of increasingly blinkered vision.

11.30am I finding myself huffing and puffing about Cross Street. Am I propositioned in the Patagonian Poultry Parlour? No. Am I Lothario’d in Larry’s ‘Laser Finish’ Laundrette (aka Pekalowski’s new ‘Dirty Clothes in Public’ Company)? Rarely. Then why must I always be salaciously seduced in Superspex? Should this read like a complaint then you too require an eye test – the ladies here are for the most part twinkling goddesses and if one or two are a little blurry round the edges then that’s probably for the best. Here, as in no other part of my existence, there are no awkward silences, no askance glances while I complete life’s necessary forms, try to read mixed messages or the writing on the wall; here soothing voices gently stroke what remains of my ego – telling me what a treat for the staff it is for me to appear in person when collecting my latest patent leather eyewear.

A TRAP, dear Reader, we’ve seen them on these pages before. A WOMAN is no doubt behind it, we can safely assume. With Licky sent to Australia in diamond chains (a desperate attempt by her family to wean her off effeminate men) I can only think this an arrangement she has made to test my undying, eternal faithfulness to her. By good fortune I have my hip flask about me and, taking an almighty swig, I proceed to smash up Superspex – at one point flinging a two-for-one Top Hat and periscope combo at a wall-sized display of wire-and-crystal kitten glasses. Back home, having presented Miss Jordan with the almighty bill, I proceed to bash seven shades out of the opposition in two rounds of footerball tonight. Yes, I am dealing with Licky’s absence fine, thank you for asking.

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