Not feeling very Jocular
My most recent preoccupation has been with the hue and saturation of the (and I use this term loosely)‘whites’ of my eyes.
A trip to the optician enlightened me not a jot as to why my scelera might be less than Daz white, though I did glean a few pleasant tingles from his hair tickling my forehead as he used the teeny tiny ice-cream scoop to look into my orbs.
After the optician, the doctor left me increasingly demoralised, “I urm, I’m worried that over the last few months the whites of my eyes have become more and more discoloured.”
“OOOOHHH YES I can see, they are, aren’t they?!” she exclaimed with squinty, clear eyed delight.
It came as a shock to hear such emphatic affirmation of my fear when up until now family members had been rigorously denying all knowledge, answering only with “No comment” and “I want my lawyer” as I shoved my eyeballs and in front of them in all light conditions.
Lo and behold a blood test was suggested, if just to get me out of her office. As she squiggled a few undecipherable symbols onto a form she said, “Hmmm this is rather intriguing, it makes an interesting change from dealing with coughs and colds all day!”
I’m so glad that I was able to break up the monotony of her day with my saffron eyes.
As seems to be routine, the first blood test went missing; donated perhaps to a particularly macabre paintball centre.
I wouldn’t even attempt to press anyone about what happened to the first batch though; receptionists at doctors’ surgeries are trained by MI5, they are completely untouchable under interrogation; even Jack Bauer would have a hard time getting the truth out of them as to where his stool sample has vanished to. (Not that he ever has a moment to himself to produce a stool sample of course.)
Second blood test round and the nurse was equally, if not more delighted than the doctor at the hideous sight of my custard pies.
Blood taken and suitably depressed, I scurried back to my car without once looking up from pavement level. And that is largely how I am carrying out daily life now, eyes down, fringe long, dark glasses in all weathers. I have never been a sunglasses person, always uncomfortable whenever anyone is speaking to me, feeling that they ought to see my eyes rather than their own reflection, I always find talking to one’s own face in the reflection of lenses to be as disconcerting as those telephone calls when you can hear your own voice echoing back at you.
Now though I am starting to come around to Magenta Devine’s way of thinking.
I recall as a child, regular periods where I became completely preoccupied with one thing, something that I had set my sights on, like pierced ears aged 10. My keen little eyes would, like a sniper hone straight in on everyone’s earlobes to ascertain all possible visual evidence to harangue my parents with and to fuel my own obsession. Now, I look at everyone else’s eyeballs longingly, feeling the heat of frustration and shame rise in my face as I see just how lurid white most peoples’ are, even the unhealthiest looking drunks on tube trains whose lids I prize open while they slump in soiled trousers - they glisten like Hollywood starlets.
I can’t watch TV at the moment without feeling repellent unless it’s a programme about people with liver problems, and that reminds me, I haven’t actually enjoyed a glass of wine since this whole debacle began, every sip ridden with guilt and the thought of yellow things. I am terrified of waking the morning after, having given in to a zesty white to discover that I am now an oaky yellow.