When our parents were little, NHS glasses were still a recent enough sign of progress to be truly valued. But their greatest socialist defender couldn’t really describe them as aesthetically pleasing.
I remember mine. Aviator style for a child of the 1980s, and round for a teenager of the 1990s. Slightly self-conscious, I couldn’t have – at the best of times – been described as fashionable.
All this has changed now that The Boy has come from the optician reporting that not all of the letters are visible. As befits a macho Big Boy, he enlisted his Mam’s advice on picking his face-furniture. We picked them up this week.
They are unobtanium, top secret metal, with “Iron Man” stamped on by the laser machine of a secret laboratory for pint-sized superheroes.
The result is that he looks heart-breakingly gorgeous, an intellectual if ever there were one.
If cute were a disease, he’d be the poster child.
And in the shop today, the young lady called him a cool dude. Job done.