You know you're getting old when...

We had a job-lot of eye tests a fortnight ago, leaving The Husband, Son Number Two and me needing new glasses. (The bank account will take a while to recover.) I collected my new glasses today. Having worn reading glasses for a couple of years, these progressive lenses feel rather different. I've read up on how long it should take me to get used to them. The consensus seems to be between a couple of hours and six months, and that I should count myself lucky if I've not fallen down the stairs by the end of today. Some forums also warn of the danger of reversing your car into concrete pillars, but I've always been pretty good at doing that - I don't think a change of prescription will make a great deal of difference in the driving department, much to The Husband's dismay. So now I'm doing a neck workout, trying to find the right position for having an unblurry computer screen. The optician fitting my glasses this morning was very patient when I explained that I couldn't get any of her page of writing into focus. 'Move your head, not your eyes,' she said, but a lifetime of reading by moving my eyes (how the heck do you read without moving your eyes??) made that next to impossible. Anyway, seven hours later, I kind of get it. You have to point your face to where you want to look, which makes observing misbehaving school-children while pretending that you're not watching them pretty much a non-starter. 

I think the worst thing about the whole experience was the amount of money I had to part with. I used to quite enjoy choosing new glasses; I tended to head for the expensive section (because they're nicer. Come on, I have to wear these things every day.), and then spent ages trying on different shapes and colours and grading them out of ten, depending how much they made me look like my grandmother. But not for these ones. Apparently, for progressive lenses (I'm deliberately not calling them varifocals, because then I'm officially old), you have to look at the price of the frames and then add £110. Because The Husband looked close to tears already, I headed for the cheaper end of the offerings. 'These will do,' I sighed, ungratefully, after trying on one pair, 'even though they've got pink bits.' And then I complained about them all the way home. I really must stop behaving like a toddler, but it's difficult. 

And while we're on the age thing:

While I was taking down a display in the corridor the other day, The Boss Lady appeared, showing two girls around the school. Maybe they want to come here for work experience, I thought. Because I'm nosy, I went to ask Mrs Secretary (She Who Knows All) who the girls were. 'They're candidates for the teaching jobs,' she explained. When I just stared at her, she added, 'Yes, I know,' and we both sighed heavily. They looked like they should have been in school, not teaching it. Since when have they let fourteen-year-olds into teaching? Then she pointed out that one of the girls was the same age as my daughter, and I realised that The Daughter is now 24 and I'm a lot older than I sometimes think. It'll be odd, having to work with someone who's a similar age to my children. Should we get some fizzy drinks in for break times? Are they ready for the problems caused by primary school students: snotty faces and toilet troubles at one end of the school, and Boy Band adoration and hormones at the other? I discussed the problem of age with Auntie Mo, another teaching assistant. 'We may not be young, but at least we've got wisdom on our side,' we decided. And then we quickly changed the subject because we weren't actually too sure about that.    

Funeral blues (and other depressing colours)

Yesterday was the Father-in-law's funeral. He died nearly a month ago, but apparently the Lincoln cremation service has a bit of a backlog. So we dug out the smart clothes and took what has to be the ugliest route in the UK, past garish transport cafes festooned with Union flags and signs the size of buses offering burgers for a pound. 

The Father-in-law had left no will, and because of the nature of his death (nine months after a stroke which left him unable to communicate) we had no idea of his wishes for his funeral, so he had a fairly generic do. It was something we discussed at a family meal afterwards: make sure you leave a list of do's and don'ts (and, yes, I had to look up the use of apostrophes in that phrase, as it just didn't look right). Anyway, wishes ranged from 'chuck me in a ditch somewhere' (the sister-in-law's husband) to detailed burial instructions, complete with particular hymns. Personally, I have changed my mind from cremation to a woodland burial. Just in case you're involved, I'd like a wicker coffin (or a cardboard one that everyone can scribble messages on) and to be buried at the woodland site just outside Bury St Edmunds, and have a hawthorn planted over me. That way, I can join the food chain and live forever. No-one is to wear black - I'd like all my hundreds of mourners to wear bright colours. I've not decided on songs: shall we go with something straight to the point, with 'Dead' by My Chemical Romance, or a sing-along version of 'Always look on the bright side of life'? Certainly, everyone will go to the pub afterwards (The Dog and Partridge, I think) and bring up embarrassing family stories. And then everyone will go home saying, 'That was nice, wasn't it?' rather than being sad. Either that, or a New Orleans-style jazz funeral, but that may be a bit pricey. 

I know it's a Holi celebration, but let's do this, too. 

(Although they may not let you in the pub afterwards.)

So now you know. I just thought it was rather sad that no-one knew what the Father-in-law wanted. I know some people don't like to discuss 'that sort of thing', but as it's going to happen to us all, why the heck not?

I suppose the one good thing to have come out of all this, is that I've got to know my sister-in-law and her husband better. They may only live a couple of hours away, but we've never really been in touch that much. And I met one of The Husband's cousins yesterday. A great guy, despite being a UK Independence Party supporter, he was the sort with whom you could have long rambling conversations about religion and politics, without it getting violent. I find it very difficult to relax with people when I've only just met them (in other words, I'm an unsociable cow), but he was someone I could spend several hours down the pub with, putting the world to rights. A bit like Ms Fab and Mrs GSOH, who I've not mentioned for ages, but who have kept me going recently. Because the brother-in-law's problem, with fluid on the brain, could potentially be something a lot worse. He had a brain scan, with a view to putting in a shunt to drain all the rubbish away, but they found something that shouldn't be there. We (and the doctors) don't know quite what it is yet, but he's in hospital and going to have surgery imminently. Families, aye?

Anyway, I should be researching why it's necessary for scholars to take account of conflicting and contested perspectives when studying religious practices, but I think I'll head off to YouTube to look at funeral songs. I'm thinking a bit of Dolly Parton might be good?