Steve Canavan needs glasses so takes an embarrassing trip to the opticians

At a rough estimate, they used to spend a good 78 per cent of each day rummaging behind cushions, searching the bedside table or checking the bathroom windowsill for their spectacles.

I used to tut and wonder how they could be so careless and foolish.

It’s funny how times change, for I have just done something spookily similar, as I’m about to describe.

I officially became a glasses wearer a month ago when, after suffering a string of headaches, I went to the doctor and told him I was suffering from a brain tumour (I’d googled it and it was definitely a tumour, no doubt about it). After sighing and shaking his head, the doctor asked if I’d had my eyes tested recently. I said yes, 12 years ago. He advised me to go for an eye test and come back if I had any more migraines.

So I booked an appointment at an opticians, the thought of which was quite exciting. I was imagining a place filled with earnest-looking men and women holding clipboards, wandering around in white lab coats, using lots of technical equipment, and generally appearing very important.

It was something of a disappointment then when, on entering the shop, I was served by a young lady wearing a beige cardigan with a badge saying, ‘Hi, I’m Brenda’, who said in broad Northern tones, “you got an appointment then love?”

I told her I did, and then, much to my delight, I saw exactly the kind of person I’d expected to – a very serious young man who took me into a darkened room and quite literally squashed my face against some strange contraption that looked not unlike a medieval torture device.

“Is that Ok, are you comfortable?” he asked, as I sat with my right eye pressed against a pane of glass, head tilted at an incredibly awkward 45 degree angle, burning cramp in my neck, and feeling about as uncomfortable as I’ve ever felt.

“Yes, absolutely fine,” I replied, for I’m British and, as everyone knows, the very essence of being British is never to complain.

He switched the machine on – a screen lit up – and asked me to read the letters. I replied, “what letters?”

He tried four slides before something fuzzy came into view. “Can you tell what that is?” he asked.

“Is it a picture of Bobby Charlton‘s face?” I said.

He gave me an odd, concerned look and replied, “No it’s the letter P.”

To cut a long story short I was told in no uncertain terms I needed glasses, both long and short distance, and had to choose a frame.

Now I’m not a vain man – with a face like this there’s no point – but this took the best part of an hour as I tried on every single frame on the shelves at least three times. The problem is I have an abnormally small head. I blame my mother for this – she, and this is true, wears the bobble hat that belongs to my three-year old daughter, and even then it’s a bit on the large side.

Not a single pair of glasses suited me. Even the smallest frames looked way too big. Each time I tried on a new pair I could hear the other customers in the shop stifle a guffaw. I felt like a small child trying on his dad’s clothing.

Eventually, I lost patience and simply purchased the pair I felt looked least bad. When I showed Mrs Canavan later she said, “no, don’t be daft, show me the real ones you bought”. Later at work, my colleague asked if I was going to a fancy dress party as Timmy Mallet. This wasn’t encouraging.

Anyway, glasses purchased, I began wearing them and must admit they made a difference – for instance when I was watching Match of the Day, I realised it was no longer presented by Des Lynam.

Then, four days into my new career as a glasses wearer, I did something I had previously mocked my parents for all those years earlier and lost them.

I searched the house high and low, but they were nowhere to be seen, though on the upside I did stumble upon a nasal hair trimmer I misplaced in 2014.

I was distraught, so distraught that I did what any grown man does in a moment of crisis and phoned my mother.

“Mum, I’ve lost the glasses I bought only the other week. I’m gutted,” I told her.

Within seconds of my mother’s reply, I suddenly remembered she isn’t the person to turn to when seeking sympathy.

“You stupid idiot”, she said, with real venom, as if I’d just confessed to murdering my next door neighbour. “That’s absolutely typical of you, careless, thoughtless. Sums up your generation. Everything is disposable, you don’t look after things. Absolutely stupid.” (That’s the edited highlights, her actual speech/verbal abuse went on for at least seven minutes).

I waited until she had finished and then said, “mum do you still want that picture hanging in the front room?”

“Oh that’d be lovely, thanks so much love”, she replied, as if forgetting the last seven minutes of vitriol had ever occurred.

The upshot of this story is that after a week without glasses I returned to the opticians and explained what had happened, hoping they’d say, “oh you daft thing, here, have a replacement pair on us”. They didn’t. They charged me £100 for another pair.

Then, three days later, I went to get my guitar out of its case … and there inside were the glasses I’d ‘lost’.

Bugger – though, in a vague attempt to look on the bright side, at least I’ll have a replacement pair the next time I inevitably lose them.