Last night I sat on my glasses and thoroughly broke them. Some fool had left them on the sofa. I mean! How stupid is that?
I thought at first that I had sat on one of the kid's cheap - but dearly treasured - pieces of crap (or toys, as they call them) but no. The quick pop of snapping plastic was the left lens of my supposedly indestructable spectacles. The frames are fine, as they are made out of that flexible metal that returns to its shape no matter what you do to it. I guess I'll get them repaired.
Although I was annoyed with myself, I think actually it was probably better, for the emotional equilibrium of the house, that I broke my glasses, rather than one of Claire or Luke's toys.
So what does all this have to do with Taking Comfort, the subject of this plog? Well, I had taken my glasses off and put them down somewhere (yes, I was that fool) in order to read from the book in question. I wasn't reading it through, just looking for a passage to read at a certain forthcoming event, more details of which will be coming soon...