The blind leading ...

"Not now! I'm busy", he flung over his shoulder at the shuffling tea-lady, as he slid the screen door shut. His face carried the excited grin of a nine-year-old who had just found a nest of blue-speckled Swallow eggs. Except this promised more than mere beauty. This promised usefulness. I had struggled, in vain, through the middle of Friday to repair his glasses which he had snapped when he sat on them at Easter. I read "Soldering for Dummies". I snuck around Bunnings desperately hoping I found the essential ingredients before a lovely, helpful, "elderly" gentleman asked if he could help me. Which he could, of course, being that I was dreadfully out of my depth. But, I had searched their online offerings earlier: Tradeflame 2*AA Battery soldering iron, replete with thin switch of solder; a fine, steel brush; and, some flux. And two things missing from the list of ingredients: a steady pair of hands, and eyes that were on speaking terms with the dimension of depth!

This, as you will readily realise, was not my chosen solution to the broken glasses. Firstly, I thought get in an optometrist. But, this is an aged-care facility. Full of people with very little spondooley. It was only worth an optometrist's time if she had five customers lined up. Bored of waiting for another four old dears to sit on their flamin' glasses, I bussed Baz down to the local mall, to a chemist with a rack of magnifying reading glasses. No. Nah. Nope. None passed muster. You see, they were not his old pair. The pair he had had for donkey's years, that sat on his nose. That made him feel himself. Time passed. The optometrist attended, and prescribed bi-focals. The RN thought to ring me. "How would they know to prescribe him bi-focals? He can no longer read", exploded I. Which is why I spent Friday doing the Bunning's skulk, followed by two hours of expleting in Darren's shed hunched over his carpentry horses, in want of a bench. Holding both separated "eyes", and the soldering iron AND the solder.

It was only then that the brain wave hit me. One of those heel-of-palm firmly planted to the fore-head moments. Baz can solder! Blimey, of course. He was addicted to crystal sets as a lad. What's fifty years between drinks? With the tea-lady disappearing into the next ward, we two - "we band of brothers" - set to our joint busyness. For an hour and a half! We could neither see, nor solder, nor hold the bloomin' ends together. He reckoned I was as blind as a bat, and I countered that he could not see an inch in front of his eyes. At least I had my glasses on, he spat. True. But you could see us improving. It is a crap job, and will snap readily. I will just take the soldering kit with me each visit. Except, I was given more advice in the parlour where the old dears congregate. "Take a fine piece of soft wire, and wind it round and round the broken bridge, then soak that with Supa-glue". Mmm ... thinks I. Bunnings here I come.