As time marches on, there are more and more bits of the body that refuse to do all they once did. The eyes are the first to show signs of wear and tear with the first symptoms being the need to hold the newspaper out so far one nearly dislocates one’s arms.

Those of us that need specs just for readin’ are forever losin’ them, leavin’ them behind, sittin’ on them or walkin’ on them. The safest place for a pair of glasses is on your head but vanity prevents many of us from investin’ in a pair we can wear all the time.

Tom Walshe, the publican, is driven to distraction sortin’ out disputes between his regular customers caused by the swappin’ and the borrowin’ of glasses. He eventually invested in a number of those off-the-shelf specs that come in varyin’ strengths.

Listenin’ to regulars orderin’ a drink in Tom Walshe’s has become a unique experience,

“I’ll have a pint, a small one, a pair of them 1.5 specs and the death notices in today’s paper, please Tom.”

“Pa Quirke has the 1.5s and the death notices, I can give you a pair of 2.5s and the sports pages.”

“That’s grand, and a bag of Rancheros while you’re at it.”

“Sure you might as well splash out when you have it.”

Some people are very stubborn when it comes to admittin’ they need spectacles. Our local sergeant and the doctor are cases in point. Sergeant McKready got so bad when he was on checkpoint duty that he’d have to ask those he stopped whether their tax, insurance and NCT were in order. Of course everyone he asked told him lies but it all changed the day he pulled over a judge from Waterford.

“When is your tax up?”

“Next year.”

“And your insurance?”

“A month before it.”

“And your NCT?”

“I don’t need one, this car is brand new. When did you last get your eyes tested, Sergeant?”

“None of your business. On your way now.”

The judge complained to the Chief Super who made McKready get the headlamps tested and, with his new specs, the hoor is catchin’ everyone for everything.

As for the Doc Doherty, his refusal to admit to his need for specs was borderin’ on the dangerous. He had to ask his patients to read their own temperatures, their own blood pressure. His writin’ got so bad the chemist thought he’d need a hieroglyphics expert to decipher the prescriptions.

It all came to a head a few weeks ago when the Doc was called out to see Madge McInerney. Madge and Patsy are in their early 70s and, after a fertile life, their 12 children are reared and gone to the four winds.

Anyway, poor Madge, who is never sick, was struck down with some kind of a bug. He husband Patsy, a renowned hypochondriac, was beside himself with worry. Any ailment or disease mentioned on the RTÉ news, Coronation Street, Fair City or Eastenders, he is sure Madge has it. Doc Doherty has a path worn to her bedside.

The Doc was beginnin’ to acknowledge his failin’ eyesight and took to usin’ a magnifyin’ glass. On a visit to Madge, he couldn’t find said glass and turned his bag upside down on the bed searchin’ for it.

“I left the blasted thing in the surgery,” says he as he gathered his accoutrements, “I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”

Unfortunately he didn’t put everything back in the bag and when Patsy came up to check on his wife, he found a pregnancy testin’ kit sittin’ on top of the duvet.

He said nothin’ to Madge but was waitin’ at the front door when the Doc returned. “Well one thing is certain,” says Patsy, wavin’ the testin kit, “if she is in this condition, I’m not the father.”

“Indeed you’re not,” answered the Doc.

“Oh how could she do this to me, after all our years together, how could she do it?”

“With great difficulty,” says the Doc, “at 74 years of age even the most advanced fertility clinic in the world would find it impossible to impregnate your good wife. It would certainly take more that a twist in a scratcher in Killdicken.”

“Well I want a second opinion,” says Patsy.

“Why?”

“Because you’re blind as a bat and everyone knows it.”

The Doc left without sayin’ a word but since then he’s sportin’ a brand new pair of spectacles suspended on a chain around his neck.

Patsy got a second opinion and, to his great relief, Doc Doherty’s diagnosis was confirmed – he is not the father.

Oh … and Madge isn’t pregnant.