I’ve lost my reading classes, so if this post has more than the usual number of spilling mistakes you’ll know why.

The last time I remember having them, I was squinting through one lens attempting to dye my eyebrows, the other half of the glasses balanced on my head, all skew-whiff. I’d look where I’d stashed the remaining dye, but I can’t find that either.

I’ve lost my varifocals looking for my reading glasses. I’ll have taken them off looking behind the sofa, or climbing a chimney, thinking my reading glasses might be there. Now I can’t see at all.

This was not what I’d planned to write this month but it’s doing my head in, not knowing where my glasses are.

Do you have an upstairs-downstairs bag? I get tired climbing the stairs. Some days it’s more of a struggle than others, so I have a bag, or a series of bags, for taking things up and down stairs at the start of the day. I’ve checked my upstairs/downstairs bag for my glasses, any pair of glasses, but there’s none there. I’ve checked bags I haven’t used in years, coats that have been in the cupboard for decades and my glasses are predictably absent.

Several times I’ve looked under the bed, but then I got stuck upstairs and, having forgotten to bring my bag, I’d neither a bottle of water nor my book. Not that I can read a book as I have lost my bloody reading glasses.

The Mister asks helpful questions.

‘What are those on your head?’

‘My spare glasses.’

‘I thought you were putting your glasses on a chain?’

‘My boobs were too big?’

I can feel him itching to say something. Lucky for him, he’s wearing his glasses and can see which way that particular wind is blowing. He wanders of muttering about ‘comedy gold.’ If I could see which direction he’d gone, I’d have thrown something.

I was going to tell you all the ins and outs of writing a book. Did I mention I was writing a book?

I was going to tell you about being asked to choose a cover designer for the book. How exciting and fabulous that was until I realised that they were talking about my book being, well, an actual book! With pages. And a cover.  A cover designed by a brilliant artist who designs covers for real writers who have real books.

 WTF!

No one told me it was going to be an actual book. I kinda thought the words would slip into the ether and people would swallow them like bubbles in pop.

An actual book sounds way more fantastical.

I was going to show you cover designs and talk about the process of editing.

Or how finding the right title is harder than actually writing a book.

Or how writing a book is actually spending hours deleting the words ‘actually’ and ‘really’. It would have been fascinating. Really!

Only I’m still looking for my bloody reading glasses so I haven’t got time to write all that.

I don’t suppose you’ve seen my reading glasses, have you? The ones without a chain.

Do you think Specsavers deliver?