Arthur wasn’t proud of his glasses. In truth, he wore them only for reading when the font dropped into the realms of what most people label as ‘small’. Unfortunately, this was still to frequent an occurrence: cutting back on paper for meetings meant tiny, tiny lettering and so many documents he had to trawl through were littered in small print.
They made his head hurt, for one. This probably meant he needed knew ones, but he couldn’t stomach an optician telling him he’d need something stronger. If he could see whilst he was driving then he could see well enough.
And then, there was the poking fun when he really did need them. Surprisingly enough, it usually came from that insufferable American. Always, “old-man,” or claims he’d be in a home soon. Despite the fact the man was permanently bespectacled himself. What poppycock.
So he hid them, often as he could, and wore them only when truly necessary and squinting wouldn’t offer the same effect (which was, in itself, hazardous if one of the East Asian nations saw him and thought he was taking the mick).
In the comfort of his own home, or in the more secluded public spaces like libraries and half-deserted cafés, he deemed it safe to wear the spectacles though. And that was where he found himself now - a small, inconspicuous tea-shop off a cobbled alley. The glasses themselves weren’t perched on his face; instead, they were rested on the table as he massaged away the headache they’d induced.
The tea-shop was lovely. Their menu was a piece of work.
He groaned, deciding he’d just have the regular English Breakfast tea and sod variety. Who even needed a different routine, anyway?