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Computer-generated approximation of Robbo's likeness

As regular friends of the decanter will remember, ol’ Robbo is, in technical terms, blind as a bat.  Recently, it occurred to him that it’s been a couple years now since he last got his eyes checked and, given the fact that everything seems to be getting fuzzy again and Robbo has been squinting more than usual, perhaps it’s time to update the ol’ prescription.

Mention of this delighted Mrs. R because it means that she can finally check off an item that ranks fairly high on her bucket list, namely getting rid of my current frames.  Yerss, Mrs. R positively hates the glasses that currently sit athwart the port-swiller nose.  (She says she just doesn’t like their look.  I, on the other hand, strongly suspect that the reason has more to do with the fact that I picked them out myself.)

For myself, I see nothing wrong with my current specs, which are as nearly round as I could find.  To me, they suggest (however misleadingly) a certain dignified, scholarly air, a sort of (not so misleadingly) low-key, conservative view of the world.  (See accompanying illustration.)

Apparently, however, this is not good enough.

Not going to happen.

So Mrs. R has, with her usual energy, taken the bit between the teeth and promised to make all the arrangements for a visit to the eye-doc, after which we are going to go to the spec-store where she will pick out what she considers to be more becoming frames.   Ah, the felicity of unbridled domesticity.

Anyhoo, what is the fashion these days?  All I can say is that I’ll be damned if I get a pair of those nerdy dark rectangles that the young people seem to be favoring.

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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

During the course of ol’ Robbo’s weekly chin-wag with the Mothe yesterday, she recommended a book she’s just finished by one W. Stanley Moss entitled Ill Met By Moonlight.  Moss was a young Brit Special Forces johnnie during WWII who, along with a colleague named Patrick Leigh Fermor, hatched a plan to sneak on to the island of Crete, kidnap the local kraut general and spirit him away back to Cairo.  Well, the plan worked and Moss kept a diary of the jaunt.  The book is based on his journal.  A real ripping yarn, according to the Mothe, and a spectacular example of the Genius of Britain at its quirkiest best.  (Now lost, I’m afraid, but one can at least take comfort in stories like this from Once Upon A Time.)

Being easily led and prey to temptation (here, specifically, I was sold as soon as I heard the title, which is, of course, from Midsummer Night’s Dream), I immediately nipped over to the devil’s website and picked up a copy.  I’ll let you know what I think.

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