Sunday breakfast at a nearby cafe was seducing us, and I elected to wear an eye patch over my infected eye. I was more than a little reluctant to do so, as I still harbour resentment for all the comments I had to exist through when I had my eye removed all those years ago.
“Which comment do you think we will be entertained with first?” I asked Mr FD. “Did you hit her, mate? What does the other bloke look like? Or where’s your parrot?”
Men usually led with the did you hit her query, so Mr FD went with it for old times sake.
We entered the busy cafe, ordered, ate and lingered at our table near the front desk and no one said a word. The waitress hinted that she noticed my very obvious black eye patch (the only choice at the pharmacy when I sent Mr FD off to procure one, alas and alack no pearls) by saying “here you are dear,” with a soft lingering dear, but not another word otherwise. She probably thought Mr FD hit me too…
Two little boys sent me long looks as they stood beside their grandmother as she paid the bill. The teacher and grandmother within me ( a lethal combination for creating niceness, sadly) shouldered forth and so I started to chat with them.
And of course the first thing I said?
“I look like a pirate, don’t I?”