So far this morning I’ve met two people who were turned away from the ballot box, one who accidentally slept through the whole thing (extraordinary) and another who was so convinced that Clegg had won from watching the telly with the sound turned down that he had a rather rude awakening when he finally got a paper at 9am.
It has finally happened. I have reached the age where strangers think I am giving them dagger eyes (or, as my 14-year-old self called them, ‘evils’) when all I am actually trying to do is focus slightly my myopic eyes to work out whether or not I know them. Once upon a time, I could pick out a casual acquaintance a mile off. I took pleasure in showing off during my driving test by identifying not only the licence plate I was being asked to read, but also the one in the car park across the road. Oh how the mighty fall. An adolescence of reading far too many books by torchlight, a decade of staring at a monitor all day, and the inherited eyes-of-a-bat from my parents (one hugely short sighted, one long – damn shame they didn’t even out) have taken their toll and I now need glasses. For the first few days after this official notification I was reluctant to embrace my new status as a wearer of face-furniture. Another thing to remember as I leave the house in the morning? Another thing I can potentially break/lose/damage in the rough and tumble of daily life? But then a wise (very wise) friend pointed out one, irrefutable, advantage to my new situation: “Needing glasses is brilliant – it’s like a whole other area of your person to accessorise!”
This week we’re preparing for the Oscars. From salivating over menus that have been accidentally ‘leaked’ ahead of the big night, to lusting after gowns, laughing at last-minute presenter panics, furiously writing prediction pieces and hoping – really hoping – that Kathryn Bigelow triumphs over ex husband James Cameron in the best film awards. It’s not just that the Avatar director has recycled his boy-meets-girl plot in blue alien form, that the 3D effects are little substitute for a subplot, or even that his non-mammal protagonists are inexplicably blessed with DD breasts. No, it’s that every other male over the age of 15 thinks it’s great and wants to talk about it. A lot. And that’s only going to get worse if it wins. Vote Bigelow, for sanity’s sake.