A Day For The Senses - Monday 9th Oct 2017

I head into Kingston, first stop Specsavers no less. My mission is to get an eye test and update my specs if need be - and save $$$ in the process. Specsavers’ arrival in NZ thankfully brought the cost of optometry somewhat into line for the consumer (about bloody time) - but it is still cheaper in the UK where the optometry chain began. They now do hearing as well, no doubt coming to NZ some time soon.

Talking of eyes and vision, before I left NZ I went to the AA to renew my Drivers licence which was about to expire after 40 years (good grief is it that long since I got behind the wheel?) - I put on my specs, which I wear for driving, and was horrified to fail the vision test. 

“But I can see perfectly well” I protested. The antiquated eye test machine apparently told another story. Seriously, that machine must be the same one that tested my 15yo 20/20 vision. A little tag on it stated that it was last tested in March 2015 and was due for its next test in March 2016. Hello, it is October 2017. I pointed this out but the staff just shrugged, confirmed my Fail and carried on dealing with queues and chaos and foreigners and discarded me. They had little interest in a mature lady who apparently can’t see well enough to be given licence to drive. I was told to go to an optician and get an eye assessment and report and return. What a rort. What a nonsense. Still, it left me with an about-to-expire licence that still needed dealing with after my trip. 

Specsavers in Kingston is busy on a Monday morning but they juggle things to fit me in as a “walk-in”. Soon enough I am having eye health tests inc. those pesky little puffs that determine pressures and the bright flashes that photograph the inside of the eyeball. The optometry assistant girl who runs these tests is very nice. And it's fair to say that these eye testing machines are state of the art and a far cry from those that sit on the AA counter waiting to fail people who can perfectly well!

A short time later the optometrist - who looks about 12 but is as competent as any I have had - is doing all the sight tests with me. I am flabbergasted to learn that my distance vision has improved markedly and my glasses are no longer helpful. This might explain that Fail!!

Seems vision is about the only thing that may improve as one ages! 

I get my new prescription for Varifocals (progressive lenses that include a new intermediate midpoint, so effectively three layers of vision-enhancement rather than two). This will be helpful for computer work that previously fell in between distance and closeup and for which my previous glasses didn’t cater.

I go to choose some specs and the lovely assistant turns out to be a Kiwi from Hawkes Bay. She is superb at helping me choose suitable frames, which is just as well because I am not the speediest decision-maker in the world and had no friend there to assist. I put aside several pairs for Jill to come and help me make a final decision on later in the day. 

So, I get a clean bill of eye health and 2 pairs of new specs, triple lenses with all the bells and whistles, one pair polarised sunglasses, for much much cheaper than I would pay at home. Excellent.

I meet Jill at Kingston station and we take the train into town. We are heading for sketch, a renowned eatery in Conduit St, off Regent Street, that I am reviewing. We are booked in for afternoon tea at The Gallery.

En route we are treated to the well-rehearsed spiel of a homeless man sporting scars and cuts on his face, a black eye and a grubby air of total misery. He loudly announces the reality of his life of squalor and proclaims his need for our money as he stands in the aisle. Without shame, he walks on by and to our surprise he doesn’t actually manage to entice anyone into giving him a penny. He appears to make it through the entire carriage without collecting any coins; he deposits a vile stench as he goes.

Here's a story ... I remember giving .50p to a beggar on Oxford Street back in 1982 after I'd just arrived in London. It was a lot of money for me in those days. Seeing a dishevelled beggar (not a common sight in Auckland back in those days!) saddened me and thought I'd help him out. I said to him "Must be tough" or similar. "Oh," he said "I do alright, I make about a hundred quid a day." I was making that a WEEK in a professional job!!! I've never given to a beggar since!

Do the math - say 10,000 people pass him in a day (he's in Oxford St!) and say 500 people (probably tourists or newbies like me) toss a coin in - if it's .20p on average - that's a hundred quid right there! I don't suppose many people stop and ask a beggar how much they make but I can tell you that guy's response sure shocked me and I've never forgotten it. That's not to say there aren't beggars in much more dire straits of course. But that's a different ballgame. 

On arrival at sketch, after an initial hiccup about the reservation and some mediocre service by a young guy who looks like he’s been shagging all weekend and doesn’t seem to quite have his eye on the ball, we are shown to our plump candy-floss pink seats and things take a turn for the better.  

The menu is explained, Champagne is poured with finesse, and a rather gorgeous twist on egg and soldiers is delivered, with caviar. It’s sensational, and has nothing to do with eggs - it’s like a cheese fondue that you couldn’t dream up. Next, a stack of sandwiches and cake treats is brought to us along with a very nice tea recommendation. Now, I’m no tea drinker but this was superb - a white tea called Jasmine Silver Needle that was just the ticket. Scones are next, followed by more cakes that are even more substantial than the first lot. Stop! We cannot eat any more. We drink more tea, this one a green style tea. I have never drunk so much tea or eaten so much cake in a long while. We take a doggy bag home for Peter. 

sketch - The Gallery

Before we leave we head to the loo. We walk into a room full of glossy white pods, like giant eggs. This is a bathroom stop with a difference, that’s for sure. We’re not s if we’re in a restaurant in London or on the set of a science fiction film. Fun. 

We wander up Regent Street to Oxford Circus, along Oxford St to Bond St, popping into shops along the way. It’s busy and buzzing and there is no doubt this is a city that exudes life as grandly and unselfconsciously as it always has. Apart from the fact the red buses have evolved their iconic shape somewhat, and Top Shop no longer rules the roost on Oxford Circus (after a zillion years in pride of place there, it’s gone), I feel like I never left this place. 

We are bemused to be confronted by the same homeless geezer still professing his miserable situation and asking for dosh. Once was enough, but twice in one day ...

We get home, have a glass of rose, ensure Peter is fed and watered (we cannot put another morsel into our mouths) and head out to the theatre. We walk along the river and the evening is as warm and pleasant as the day has been. It’s been very mild since I arrived, in fact I have been stripping off rather than layering up and grateful for skies without rain.

We arrive at the Rose Theatre which is a round setting, akin to the Globe style. The play is The Real Thing by Tom Stoppard which has many layers; a play within a play which keeps you on your toes. The seating isn’t highly comfortable but the acting is very good - Laurence Fox is the lead. The set is simple yet effective, the stage management is slick and the lighting is captivating. As we walk home we wonder how on earth they remember all those lines.

I drift off to sleep easily after a busy and wonderful day and night. 

OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:

Cyclists are everywhere. Whether peddling down Regent Street or up a suburban street, they seem to be taking over the roads and coming at you from all angles. Roads all over the place have been narrowed to allow cycle lanes and motorists are not pleased. It’s much the same everywhere I suppose - more wits are required on the road than ever before, no matter your modus operandus. At least in London the roads are flat and there is rarely any wind to contend with, so I suppose Cycling is an appealing transport option. Give me a train any day!