Be Careful Who You Pick Up

Be Careful Who You Pick Up

I was on the road one day, and passed through this small village in the countryside. You’d have to live in England to know the sort of place I mean, kind of sleepy: busy means a man walking a dog. I stopped at a local pub for a quick drink and a bar meal. I walked in, and looked around: there were a few locals there, all drinking the usual sort of real ales that you find around here. In one corner there was this woman: she was around 30, tall, and well built, rather overweight but she carried herself well, and had a pretty big bust. She wore a dark blue dress, her hair was long and dark, tied back behind her head. She looked at me through these large plastic glasses: out of fashion these days and decidedly cheap-looking, with really thick lenses. Her face was pushed in quite a bit each side, it was almost possible to see behind her. These lenses made eyes were a little hard to see, but she was squinting; then she raised her hand and pressed them back onto her nose, and carried on squinting. I smiled at her, but she did not respond.

She then looked down at the remains of her meal, which as far as I could see was mainly fries and ketchup. I left her to it, ordered a drink and a meal from the bar, and went to sit. I carried on looking at her from time to time, in doing so noticing that she seemed to ignore most of what was going on around her that wasn’t related to food. Some young girl brought me my lunch, so I sat eating. Minutes later she stood up and walked to the bar, where she asked, ‘which way’s the loo?’ The sign for it was quite obvious to me. The barman gave a strange look and told her, ’that way.' She growled her thanks, and wandered in the direction indicated, only to stumble noisily on a chair leg. She swore, then carried on. I continued eating.

I’d finished by the time she was out: she’d taken a long time, I thought: she did not trip on the way out. She went to the bar again and asked were the nearest bus stop was. I thought I saw one outside, not far from the pub. It didn’t matter, because again the barman helped her. The woman left, and a few minutes later I heard the barman mutter to himself, ‘she must be really blind!’

I finished up myself around ten minutes later, went out to my car, and started off again. It wasn’t long before I saw the bus stop; I expected to see the woman waiting there, but she wasn’t. So I drove on, and around the next corner, there she was, walking along looking around her. I don’t know what made me stop, but maybe it was something to do with the way she looked, or maybe just that she’d missed the bus stop. Anyway I turned my music off and rolled to a halt. She saw my car: not as quickly as I would have thought, but she saw it, stopped and came up to the window. She had this suspicious, slightly deranged expression. I opened the window. She demanded angrily, her bust wobbling under her dress as she moved, ‘what do you want?’ ‘Can I give you a lift?’ She looked a bit fierce, and I really wish I’d known what I’d let myself in for. But then she said uncertainly, ‘you’re that guy in the pub aren’t you?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. Where are you going?’ She paused a moment, then said ‘OK. Take me whichever way you’re going.’

I could not help but be drawn to her chubby face and thick glasses, which I got a good look at as she got in. I noticed that there seemed to be quite a lot of grime where the cleaning of her lenses had missed the bit between frame and lens, and on the side of her right lens there was a small chip. She spotted me looking at her; although she said nothing, her eyes blazed at me as if to tell me to look at the road and get driving. I drove out of the village back to the main road. It was a lovely bright day, one of those spring days when it is not too hot nor too cold, and there is no rain to spoil it. I asked her, ‘which way you headed?’ She replied firmly, ’north.' ‘Anywhere in particular?’ ‘I don’t care!’ She sounded angry and impatient, almost as if her best mood was tetchy, as now. We drove past a road sign, during which I saw her pressing her left lens against her face with her hand. I did not see the look of displeasure on her face. She then asked, ‘where are you headed?’ ‘Anywhere. I like driving, I find it very calming. Well, not town driving. Driving these country roads is relaxing.’ She shrugged.

Eventually we came to a halt at a T-Junction; across the road was a sign pointing at the two possible directions. Not really caring myself which way I went, I asked, ‘which way do you want to go?’ She growled in response, ‘where are we?’ By now I was beginning to realise that her eyesight wasn’t that great, even with those glasses. I replied, ‘at a T-Junction. Which town do you want to go to?’ At that, she again pressed her glasses against her face and her eyes narrowed. She then realised I’d noticed her doing this, so she stopped and said angrily, ‘stupid signs, they make them too small to read!’ She sat in an angry and embarrassed silence. Then I asked, trying to be helpful, ’left or right then?' She shrugged, then blurted out, ‘right!’ So I turned right.

A few minutes up the road she said caustically, ‘you had to put me through that, didn’t you?’ ‘Put you through what?’ ‘Making me feel stupid!’ ‘All I did was ask which way you wanted to go!’ She sat in angry, wounded silence. I thought to myself unhappily “this girl’s got problems.”

I waited for her to calm down a while, then drove till I was on a quiet stretch of road. I didn’t want to ask the next question in a busy section, my opinion being that if she got mad, she might have caused me to crash. Anyway I took my chance, and really my courage in both hands, and asked, ‘can’t you see very well?’ I could see out the corner of my eye, and hear in her voice that this question caused her to seethe with resentment. She hissed, ’no. I can’t' She didn’t offer any explanation, so again ensuring that the road was clear, I asked as gently as I could, ‘why is that?’ The answer came like a tiger being let loose on some helpless prey, thankfully only verbally but still, her voice went through me as she bawled out, ‘because I can’t afford new glasses! Are you satisfied now?’ I did not dare do anything but drive for a long time!

We motored on for a couple more hours, then I said to her, ‘do you want to stop?’ ‘No.’ Eventually plucked up the courage to ask, ‘what’s your name?’ She did not answer, so I told her mine.

Soon it was getting dusk, and I was wondering whether to dump her and turn for home, or carry on with her wherever she wanted to go. I am tall, taller than her anyway, but only of average build. She must have been getting on for one hundred pounds heavier than me, and coupled with an attitude like a snake with a red hot poker up its backside, well I doubted whether she would take kindly to being dumped! It was dark before we came upon a small town, whereat she suddenly announced ‘I’m hungry. Stop here and I’ll find some place to eat.’ I stopped the car by the side of the road whereupon she got out, slamming the door shut: I suppose it was wishful thinking to expect her to simply shut it. She walked up the side of the road, pressing her glasses against her face and squinting. She then stumbled on a loose kerbstone and fell heavily, cursing. I went to help her up: she pushed me away, telling me to get my f-ing hands off her! She got to her feet herself and glared at me through those thick, lovely but obviously inadequate lenses of hers!

Well, this woman sort of led the way down the street, stopping only to peer shortsightedly into anything that remotely resembled a bar or takeaway. Unfortunately, with her vision she would have a long time finding it! I jogged up to her and asked, ‘what are you looking for?’ She glared at me again, then seem to realise that like it or not, she needed me to help her out. She hissed at me angrily ‘KFC, or a cafe, something like that. I don’t care.’ ‘Let’s try this.’ For once, she let me take the lead. I heard her stumble again, but this time wisely did not offer to help her. I stopped in front of a rather grimy sort of cafe and waited for her: she came up to me and stopped a couple of feet away. She asked, ‘well?’ ‘It’s a cafe.’ ‘I can see that! I’m not blind you know!’ In my thoughts, I disagreed, but dared say nothing.

She pushed her way inside, seeming to forget that I was there: inside it was pretty small, adequately lit, but not so much that the dirt could become too visible. Behind the counter, a greasy south-western European man stood boredly waiting for customers. To one side were a few tables with chairs, and in the corner a TV hung, seemingly about to fall: definitely this place had seen better days. On the wall behind the counter was a board with a list of what was on offer. Knowing her, my grumpy friend went to the counter in an attempt to read it: she pushed her glasses to her face and squinted for all she was worth, but I could see she was getting nowhere. Of course, if you are pressing yourself against the counter with all your might and a bit more besides, that could be quite reasonably taken as intent to order, that is if you could read the menu! The poor man behind the counter looked at her expectantly, but of course if you can’t read the menu, how can you order from it? I didn’t know quite what to do: offer to help, and get blown away? Or not offer, and get told that I should have offered. Run away? That’s a cowards way out. As I stood screaming “help!” to myself, she turned to me and asked sourly, as usual, ‘what’s that say?’ Pointing at nothing in particular on the menu, as if she could just about read it, whereas it seemed that she had no idea what it said. I told her, and she responded, ‘oh, don’t like that.’

She asked a couple more times, then eventually shrugged and settled for something she obviously didn’t like that much. She then paid the man, thus it was my turn; while she stomped toward the table, her expression that of someone about to explode, I did my best to save the situation. I told him, ‘she’s foreign. Doesn’t read much English.’ The man behind the counter looked pretty unconvinced, but then the comment wasn’t wholly aimed at him anyway. When I turned to her, she was watching me though those amazing lenses, struggling to see. I was glad to see my comment had done something to put her at ease. She looked up at the TV, still squinting painfully as she tried to make out what was going on, but quickly gave up with a irritated “humph” and a muttered comment, ‘f-ing thing, they always put it where I can’t see it!’

The food came mercifully quickly. Well all I can say about it, it was food: I don’t think this place would have won any restaurant stars. After eating, my friend became agitated, well that’s more agitated than normal, and started peering around through those thick glasses of hers. I asked tentatively, ‘what’s wrong?’ Knowing as much of her attitude as I did, it could have been anything really, but she hissed at me, ’tell me which way the loo is!' I looked, and pointed her in the right direction. She stomped off in her usual angry manner. While she was in I watched the TV: a news report came on, and one of the top items was a murder in the area. Now if you know this part of the world like I do, murders are rare events, about as rare as when the mule foals, as the Romans maintained. It concerned this guy called Peter Taylor who was found murdered in his Caravan (or Trailer, if you like) early this morning: knifed, apparently. No sign of his wife either, described as a tall, well built woman with glasses called Leanne. I gaped: that sounded like someone I knew very well, and as I’d picked her up not ten miles from the scene of the crime, it seemed chillingly obvious who she was. She walked back in; as she did so, the news report moved onto another item. She sat with me, but seemed unable to read my expression, thanks to her poor vision. I did my best to look as if I had no idea who she really was.

She then asked me rather slyly, ‘so, why are you helping me?’ I had to stop myself saying that I felt sorry for her: I think she would have torn my head off, one way or another! Instead I told her another truth. ‘I find you attractive’ The expression on her face was something like you’d expect if I’d run a few hundred volts through her, but only for an instant. Her face then fell into a scowl, and she retorted, ‘Men!’ She grumbled a bit more, got up and walked out, with me following after her a few yards behind her. Again she stumbled, and then hissed angrily, ‘don’t laugh at me!’ I replied ‘I didn’t laugh at you.’ She carried on with me following her; as I did so wondering whether to let her know that I thought I knew who she was, and what she had done.

I could have just asked what her name was, but she might have lied, or simply said nothing as before, so I decided to use a trick, as was used on the film “The Great Escape” to catch the escapees. I called out to her, all innocent-sounding ‘Leanne?’ She stopped, and turned to face me. I had got her, and she knew it. The old tricks are the best ones! Her face was a mixture of anger, fear, resentment and curiosity. She walked back toward me, eyes smouldering, and asked me, as calmly as she could, ‘how do you know who I am?’ ‘There was a news report about this guy called Peter Taylor, who got murdered by someone who matches your description pretty closely!’ She stood there, and for once did not look as if she was about to explode. She replied almost softly, ‘yeah, OK, I did it.’ With that she turned on her heels and walked off in the direction of my car.

She walked straight past it, so I called out, ‘it’s here!’ She turned, and with an embarrassed, angry look came back. I said to her, ‘sorry, I should have shown you.’ She nearly barked a rebuke at that, because I knew by now that she hated being guided around as if she were blind. Instead she shrugged and said ‘I might have found it eventually.’ We got in, and immediately I asked her, ‘what do you want to do now, Leanne?’ She looked at me caustically, and then seemed to realise I might be genuine, so her face softened a little, and then asked rather quietly and fearfully, ‘can you hide me?’ ‘Here?’ She seemed about to explode just because I could not give her what she wanted.

But then I said ‘OK, OK. Look, we can find some cheap hotel or something to stay the night. But we’ll have to act as if we’re husband and wife.’ Her eyes burned behind her thick lenses, despite the refractive index: they were hot with dismay. Her voice went up and up ‘I am NOT sharing a room with you!’ I sighed inwardly. Patiently, I told her, ’look, Leanne, I’m trying to HELP you. You know, you’re in trouble. The police won’t take long to find you, because you can’t see for shit and you’ll probably blunder right into them.' Leanne grabbed the door handle and started to open it. But anger was not the only thing driving her, oh no. I had seen fear in her too: she didn’t want to be caught. She said rather stiffly, ‘fine. Just don’t you DARE touch me.’ ‘We may have to hold hands.’ She did not argue that one. She needed me, and she knew it. OK, she might have survived on the run like this for a while, but with my help, hopefully a lot longer. I then said, with cheeriness I didn’t feel, ’let’s look for a hotel then' She nodded. A hint of anger remained on her expression, as if she knew that she would do very little of the looking.

I started off and drove up the street. After a few minutes we came across somewhere cheap and not too nasty, at least from outside appearances, one of those chains with fixed price rooms. There was a notice up on the side giving the rates in big letters; she did her usual squinting effort to read it, and then gave up. I simply told her, ’not that much.' She scowled, annoyed that she could not do such a simple thing as read a sign. Before I got out, I summoned all my courage, and gave her the bad news ‘Leanne, you’ll have to take your glasses off.’ She looked at me as if I was talking like an ape. Then she said, ‘why?’ ‘The Police are, or will be, looking for someone with glasses. Hopefully this will keep the heat off you.’ Of course, Leanne being Leanne, she exploded, ‘you have GOT to be f-ing joking!!! I don’t see that well with these old things, but without, shit, I’m BLIND!!! You are mad! MAD!’

I let her blow herself out a little. Then I started to explain, ’look, Leanne, it will be OK. I can lead you around. Just hold my hand.' I’d said the wrong thing, although with Leanne, that wasn’t hard. Angrily she told me, ‘I do NOT want to be led around by a guide dog!’ Her bust shook as she shouted at me for the umpteenth time! I drew breath and told her ‘Leanne, I am TRYING to help you. Do you want to be helped? Is that so bad?’ She shook her head. I let her stew for a few moments.

She calmed down a bit, then raised her hands to her face and slipped her glasses from her face. I finally got a look at her bare eyed: she wasn’t that bad looking, a bit chubby-faced, kind of pretty in her own way. On each side of her nose was the predictable mark where her glasses normally rested. Her eyes were light brown and squinting, then they took on a strange faraway, unfocused look, as if she knew they didn’t see much, so didn’t bother using them. Only her seemingly permanent sour expression told me that this was still Leanne. She tucked them into her handbag, feeling the top for the catch. She said, with some bitterness, ’look, this had better be worth it. I really can’t see ANYTHING.' ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you.’ I thought I’d better stop saying that I would “guide” her. She’d start using me as a guide dog. Or worse!

She felt for the door handle, pulled it, and got out. I got out my side and locked the car. Instead of stomping off by herself, she hung around by the car. Yep, she needed me. I came around and offered her my hand. She saw me, after a fashion; she grabbed my wrist, then felt down it to my hand and grabbed hold of it. I told her, ‘OK. Here we go.’ I tried not to make this too obvious, just in case anyone was watching. There was a step at the doorway, which I had to warn her about: she gave me one of her scathing looks, but at least it was better than having to pick her up off the floor. Through the door ahead of us was the reception desk, complete with pretty smiling receptionist. She carried on smiling as if she were capable of nothing else as we walked up to her. I said, ‘we’d like a room for the night, please.’ Leanne gripped her handbag tight in one hand and my hand with her other hand. She replied, ‘of course sir.’

I had to let go of Leanne to fill in some forms and stuff like that. The girl seemed unfazed by the lack of luggage. Thankfully, I got away with putting Leanne’s name down as initials. Then the girl said, ’the lift’s that way, sir.' It was quite obvious to me, but to Leanne it might as well have been on Mars. She looked straight at it and asked innocently, ‘where?’ Then realised she’d said something really stupid so stopped. The girl looked at her for a longer moment than I would have liked, but then we left reception and I led Leanne to the lift. Only within a couple of feet or so away did she seem to realise that this was indeed the lift, so she started looking for the control panel. I simply stabbed the panel for the right number, glanced back and saw that the receptionist’s expression had returned to bored indifference, welcoming smiles now being unnecessary. Leanne groped around for a second or two, then I told her, ‘it’s over here.’ She stopped, checked where I said, and then said grumpily, ‘why didn’t you tell me then?’ I rolled my eyes heavenward. I thought that some people are so difficult to help, particularly this one.

The lift arrived at our floor, thus we got out. Leanne hissed, ‘anyone around?’ I told her there wasn’t. She unclipped her handbag, groped around in it, pulled out her glasses and eagerly put them back on her face: at least now she could see fairly well. She took the lead - in the wrong direction. She peered at one door and then another, having to get ridiculously close to read the numbers. I told her, ‘it’s the wrong way.’ She shrugged and for once seemed to take my advice without complaint. She came toward me uncertainly, asking, ‘is that you?’ ‘Yep.’ I waved. She did not get the joke, so I stopped waving. This time I told her, ‘follow me.’ thus she did without a word to the door of our room. I unlocked it and we went in. I stood at the door while she pressed past me, predictably having to look at things closely while I saw them from where I stood. She discovered that there was a sofa; whilst pointing at it, she told me, ’that’s yours.' I’d expected as much.

I sat on the sofa, and she dumped her bag on the side table by the bed - her bed, and sat on it. She felt the fabric with her fingers, as if her eyes weren’t up to the task. I doubted they were. She looked at me expressionlessly. I asked, as gently as I could, ‘well, Leanne. How did we get in this mess?’ She knew I was prying, so looked quite displeased. But something was kicking around her mind, and for once it wasn’t rage or fear; not for the moment, anyway. Then in a rising ride of anger she said, ‘you want to know why I stabbed my husband? Because he was a complete wanker! The things he said to me, the way he treated me, like shit. SHIT! Like the rest of this shitty world!’ She yelled at the top of her voice, her whole body heaving at the effort. She then stopped, and stared into space for a long moment. With resignation in her voice she then said, ‘oh well. I’ll you all about me, then.’

She inhaled, and then started ‘I’ve always been a bit on the cuddly side, always had a weight problem. The kids at every school used to bully me so much! The things they called me, like Thunder Thighs, Large Leanne, Lumpy Leanne. It was awful. I didn’t imagine things could get worse. But they did. I got caught by the school nurse, and before I knew it I had my first pair of glasses. Something else to tease me about! And they did, oh how they did. I was the only one in the class who wore them when I was ten.’ A dark look swept across her face. Anger rose in her again. She continued, ‘it was so UNFAIR! What did I do to deserve it? I couldn’t help it!’ She stopped, and sighed in exasperation, then concluded, ‘my glasses got thicker and uglier every time I went to the optician. And the cruelty and jokes got worse. I put on more weight, which didn’t help. My teenage school years were a nightmare. I used to skip lessons, take days off, anything to miss it.’ Only her anger seemed to stop her from breaking down in tears.

‘I left school as soon as I could. Of course I left with no qualifications, and half an education. I was just that stupid fat girl with the thick glasses. A no hoper from the start!’ ‘I couldn’t get a job. Everyone thought I was stupid. And boyfriends? Forget it, I had no chance. I’m the bespectacled blob from hell. No-one even looked at me till around oh, twenty-five or so. Then I met this man, Peter.’ Her voice took on a wistful tone, ‘he was a dream come true at first, what I’d been trying to find for years and years,’ and then back to grim anger, as she said, ‘he was fine at first, then I found he was messing around with other women. I was so desperate and unhappy that I dared not throw him out. We had such huge rows! I know I’ve snapped at you, but that’s nothing. Finally, yesterday morning he called me a fat four-eyed cow and I snapped. I REALLY snapped. I stabbed the shithead.’ After a short pause, she continued, ‘it took me a while to realise what was going on, so fear took over and I showered myself to clean the blood off of me, and changed, and then left. I don’t care much what happens now. There is nothing left for me.’ “Oh, my,” I thought, “what HAVE I got myself into here?” But I’m a naturally sympathetic person, maybe a sucker for a sob story. But this wasn’t JUST a sob story: it was real. I knew myself how badly the world could treat people, and I knew to my cost how all the negative parts of the human condition: anger, fear, jealousy, ambition, pride, to name a few culprits, could be so destructive.

Then she asked me, rather nervously, ‘do you really find me attractive?’ I nodded, and said, ‘yes I do.’ It took her a long moment to figure out that I wasn’t making fun of her. She looked rather surprised, but then a tiny smile appeared on her face. Leanne? Smiling? Yes. I do believe she did. Then she said, ‘you’re a very kind man. I don’t deserve it.’ She got up, walked over and sat next to me. She paused, and then leaned towards me, her breast pressing against my arm, and kissed me gently on the cheek. I replied, ‘how do you know what you do and don’t deserve?’ Her anger sparked in her yet again ‘I don’t deserve half what I’ve had to put with. Look, I’ve been on all sorts of pills, trying to make me feel better. I’ve been, they tell me, depressed. Depressed? I’d feel better if I was! Anyway the pills don’t work. Not for me. They don’t make me thin, don’t make my vision better, don’t take away the memories!’ Her voice grew in volume as she spat it all out. I knew full well Leanne had had some bad things in her life. I wondered why the worst things in life seem to happen to those who are least equipped to handle them? Leanne certainly had good reason to be angry with the world around her, but not with herself. She didn’t seem such a terrible person really, not from what she’d told me and what I’d seen. Convincing her that this was the case seemed an altogether different matter.

I gently touched Leanne’s leg with my hand, and she looked at me through those amazing lenses of hers; unexpectedly a tear rolled down from under them and down her cheek. I touched it with my finger, and she then cried out and ran off into the bathroom crying. I got up and followed her after a while. I could hear her sniffling a bit, so I tapped at the door and asked, ‘you OK in there?’ A sort of “mmm” sound came from inside, which I took to mean some kind of “yes”. Then the door opened, and Leanne peeked out. She was bare-eyed, her eyes were reddened and puffy from crying. I watched her dry her eyes for what must have been the umpteenth time and she replaced her specs. She then quietly said ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that life’s just so damned unfair. Why couldn’t I have met you years ago?’ I let her out of the bathroom, not really having an answer to that.

Leanne then collected herself, but said nothing, just gazing at me longingly. I said to her, ’look, I’ll sleep on the sofa if you want.’ She smiled, and laughed for the first time since I’d met her: I told her it was good to see. I suggested she sleep for a bit while I kept watch, then swap. I then watched her take off her glasses and lie down for sleep; she was soon fast asleep, snoring a little. While she was asleep, I crept up to the side table by the bed and picked up her glasses. They were, to my estimation, easily 5-6 years old: the strength was around minus twenty in each lens, and looking through them made things hard to see and a bit faraway. “Couldn’t see for shit” was about right. I carefully replaced them exactly where they were put by Leanne. I imagined she’d have trouble finding them otherwise! I let Leanne sleep for around four hours, then woke her and I tried to sleep. Eventually I dozed off.

When I woke it was morning. I awoke with a start, and realised it was later than I had hoped. Then I turned to the bed, and to my surprise there was no Leanne. On the side table was a note scrawled on the cheap notepaper provided by the hotel. It said “I’m sorry I can’t stay with you. I am afraid that it will all go wrong and you’ll be caught and punished with me. I’m very grateful for the help you have given me and sorry to shout at you so much! You are wonderful! Goodbye! Love, Leanne.”

I went downstairs and found the hotel bill had been paid, obviously by Leanne. I went out, found my car, and drove home. I found out a few days later that Leanne had been caught: being quite poorsighted, she’d blundered into a group of police, been arrested and was now in custody awaiting trial. It wasn’t until the trial was due to begin some months later that I found out where she was being held. It took me a while to get access to her: she was held in a secure section of a remand prison which wasn’t good for her, or indeed those whose job it was to care for her.

I remember arriving and waiting in this room for Leanne to be brought in. There was a metal grille in front of the seat I was sitting on, and behind that another chair and plenty of room for warders to look after whoever was in here. A door opened into the fenced-off section and I heard a familiar voice crying, ‘what the fuck are you doing? Get off me!’ Leanne was then pretty much dragged into the meeting room by two burly female warders: she was in handcuffs, behind her back, but she still spat venom and anger. She still wore those old, inadequate lenses that I’d seen her using months ago. The warder told her, ’look who’s come to see you.' This wasn’t an easy proposition for Leanne, but she gave it a go, squinting for all she was worth: she didn’t recognise me, saying, ‘who is it?’ I told her ‘Leanne, it’s me.’

Instantly the fight went out of her, as she realised who I was. Then she started up again, crying out at me, ‘where the fuck have you been? I’ve been stuck in here for months and this is the first time you’ve come!’ Whatever months of remand had done to her, she was still the same Leanne. But then she seemed to really calm down, and this surprised the warders; they’d only known this woman raging at them. She pulled away from them, and sat in front of me. She asked, ‘well, are you going to help me again?’ ‘If you want, I’ll try.’ We talked for some time; Leanne demanded to have her hands free, so that she could touch me through the wire mesh, but the warders refused, being as they were wary enough of Leanne even when cuffed. But they’d never seen her so calm.

Leanne pressed her cheek against the wire, and demanded that I touch it. This I did for her. She then tried to kiss me through the wire. Eventually the meeting was over, and she was dragged screaming away. I knew I was taking on a lot on here, but I wanted to help her. I wanted to prove that Leanne could be calm and placid with me, not just a raging bull. It took several visits to her solicitor to sort things out, and some time with a psychiatrist, but I managed to convince them both that she was not beyond the pale. Her court case came up eventually, and she did get sentenced - the judge wasn’t wholly convinced, but then he didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. Leanne was put in prison for a year. Being the firebrand she was, on balance it was tougher on the rest of the prison than her.

I took her home from prison and let her stay at my place. She seemed to be so calm and gentle when she was with me, and after a night out to dinner we made love. She was as firey and potent in bed as she was argumentative: just what I thought. Then one day I suggested to her ‘Leanne, why don’t we go to the optician?’ ‘Why?’ She demanded, trying to make it sound as if I was stupid for asking. I told her, ‘well, I thought because you haven’t been for years, and have trouble focusing - you know when we went out last week you couldn’t find the ladies…’ Leanne’s face turned dark. “Oh dear,” I thought, “I know what’s coming next…”

Leanne didn’t explode: instead she ran away in tears. It took me a while to calm her down, then I realised she hadn’t been because she was SCARED. Scared that the optician would find something so terribly wrong with her vision that he couldn’t fix it. I have never faced such problems myself, nor such fear of the unknown. I just told her that she needed to find out the truth. ‘Who knows,’ I told her, ‘you might just need stronger lenses.’ Well as you can imagine by now, it took weeks of persuasion to get her to make an appointment, and then a fit of tears before I almost physically dragged her into the optician. I promised to sit with her for the examination: she was both embarrassed and pleased by this. I was curious too: I wanted to see what sort of problems she had, and what could be done to sort it out.

The optician gave her a thing like a black lollipop (that’s what it looked like!) and asked her to cover one eye up and read the eye chart. Leanne gruffly explained that her best eye was her left. She promptly covered her right lens, then tried her best to read the eye chart. She read the topmost letter, and then the next line, but the third line seemed to give her trouble. She squinted and struggled, then just came to the fourth line down and gave up. The optician asked her to switch eyes. She soon proved that her left eye was indeed her good eye, being as she got little further than the top letter, a pretty enormous “H”. He did all sorts of other tests on her, and then looked quite amazed that she’d survived for so long with such poor vision. His verdict was directed at me too, as if I had something to do with it.

Leanne needed a big chunk more myopic correction, that much was obvious, and some help with astigmatism. The optician laid before her the options available: she could have had myodiscs, or some normal lenses, but both seemed to have drawbacks. Well, you know me, well you should by now: I got her to accept normal lenses with a spare pair with myodiscs in. This optician was blessed with the sort of laboratory some of you dream about, it could do really powerful prescriptions onsite.

I helped Leanne pick new frames. She was really into her old frames and wanted something similar: plastic, but not quite so cheap this time. I’m not made of money, but I did want to see the result, which was well worth it, too. Leanne got her new glasses about two hours later, and was suitably amazed, although she discovered that with either pair of specs she couldn’t read the bottom two or three lines of the eyechart. This disappointed her, but the improvement in her vision was dramatic, if not to perfection. Well, I lived with Leanne some months: she was amazing in bed, with some of the tigerish nature she’d showed to those people and things that had annoyed her in the past. Out of bed, she found I had a calming effect on her, but it was not to last. You can guess what happened, can’t you? Well I’ll tell you: one day I trimmed my toenails, something that has to be done every so often: she went bananas when she found nail clippings on the carpet. Some time later I found myself in hospital, having had surgery for a knife wound. Although she was apologetic, I didn’t want to have anything else to do with her: she was soon hauled back into prison.

This is why I say ‘Be careful who you pick up!’

https://vision-and-spex.com/be-careful-who-you-pick-up-t650.html