The Evemen Letters | III
Dear Faithful Reader,
I’m afraid I MUST skip formalities and social conventions for a most urgent matter as fallen upon me, just last Thursday! A grave, terrible and desperate matter. A situation so dear that I do not know if I should recover. Steady yourself, incase some fits might seize you upon reading.
I have lost my glasses.
I know, I know! Such was my reaction as well once the news have revealed itself, (well, I can only guess our reactions were of the same birth).
Where they are I do not know, where they reside I have no knowledge. They live in a house I do not possess the address of. A street I do not know the name. They left me in the quiet moments of forget and the dark hours of misplacement. It was only at 9:32am, which I had them last, that they sat quite uncomfortably on the bridge of my nose.
“Where did you lose them?” Mr. Archet had, unhelpfully, asked. (I’ll never understand this question).
“If I knew, I would have found them by now!”
“Have you tried your teacup?”
“Yes, I’ve tried my teacup.”
“The teapot?”
“Indeed, not there either.”
“Perhaps they could be in the butter dish?”
“That was the first place I looked!’
“What about inside one of your books?”
I pondered on this idea. He was right. I had not checked there yet.
I began rummaging through my books, in them, around them, beside them, and under them. They were still not to be found. I must admit I fell into great despair. You see, though I can see quite fairly without my glasses, they have become a part of me, such a puzzle piece to my face that even when they are not there, I oft find myself pushing up the invisible rims on my nose, only to perceive I am just pressing upon my forehead. (To my great embarrassment if done in public). Such is the habit ingrained, instilled into me, that now I write about it, I wonder if this business of losing them might have done me some good.
I spent the rest of the day in an erratic searching manner before residing in despair.
“All hope is to be lost!” said I, once Thursday evening came in bounds of dark abundance.
“Fear not, Mr. Evemen! Surely, it is the case where when you don’t look for something at all, there it will be found in the most likely place.” Mr. Archet, I have noted on multiple occassions, did have a way with words, wisdom that burst from the ground in an unpredictable manner. Unfortunately, he still ate off the ground, something I’m diligently working on to correct.
“Your optimism restores me, dear friend, but normally, generally speaking, I would have found them by now, at least!”
“They are not in the oven either?” He remarked, with with great, unfounded, confidence.
“They are invisible if they do reside there.”
A desperate situation required such desperate measures so I have enquired and employed the help of the mice, the moles, Mr. Vleeson, the rabbits and the geese. Reluctant at first, they were soon spurred on by the idea of fresh peanut pops, straight of the oven, with no delay. Friday awoke, with all it’s potential and possibility. Expectancy sat in the hours of the earlier morning, as I, once again mind you, brewed hope in my heart of finding them. We spent all the day searching. We searched Mr. Yakkers front garden, to his dismay. Mr. Biddles larder we turned upside down, and Mrs. Brembles library was turned upsydown. Alas, I was married to a fruitless result by the end.
The week grows into Saturday, dear reader, and I feel naked! Truly vulnerable in the sense of sight. Thus, I am put into a position, even though I know you wouldn’t mind, regardless am reluctant to be forced into. I don’t suppose, if it’s not a great trouble, that you wouldn’t mind in the slightest, just a moment of your time I ask, if it’s not any great inconvenience for you, to perhaps look out for them? You needn’t spend long, just a brisk look around and inform me of the results of your search?
They’re round, like digestive biscuits but not quite so big - small digestive biscuits. With black, slim rims, but the paint has chipped off slightly, revealing, underneath, the copper colouring of the metal. Like chocolate biscuits, except the chocolate doesn’t cover the top, only the edge - a smidge of chocolate. Choclated rimmed glasses, I mean biscuits. To clarify, there is no chocolate on my glasses. Only on biscuits, well not only on biscuits but in this instance, the example I used, there was only chocolate on the biscuits…Anyway, the glass themselves are scratched beyond belief, they are worn so often that this outcome is truly unavoidable.
In fact, I’ll right down the description on a separate piece of paper so you can carry it with you - I have a pen here in my dressing gown, for one should never be to far from a writing instrument.
It’s just here-…one moment.
My word! You WILL NOT believe what I have just found.
Low and behold, nestled between the red fibres and fabric, unbeknownst to me for the entirety of the passing days, here they are! In the right hand pocket of my dressing gown.
I shall have to inform Mr. Archet right away, he will be most pleased (as I did moan quite a bit).
I pray this coming week keeps you safe and warm. Hopefully, I can be assured, like always, that you are sitting in your preferred spot, with a candle and this very letter for your Sunday evenings pleasure, (as I know you like). Fortunately for us both, I tamed my tongue and fingers, simultaneously but with great effort, resulting in my rambles being less frequent - though not completely abolished. There is, as per usual, a balance to these things which only Life can teach in partnership with Responsibility.
January matures, the year is but young! Remain hopeful and steadfast in your assigned pursuits. Do not grow weary as I know you’re accustomed to do but stay patient in your situations. I’ll write to you anon, as soon as the postman comes back from the Land of Lexicon, for this is where all the post comes from!
Until next time,
Your Most Affection Writer
Mr. Evemen
