Sod’s Law: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

“THIS IS BLOODY RIDICULOUS! WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY GLASSES?”


I ranted, above the sound of Coronation Street.

“How am I supposed to know, George?” My wife, Anne, said glued, as usual, to the Television set.



I rolled my eyes and stomped my way into the kitchen. Maybe I left them in here when I was putting the shopping away. I began to look on the work-surfaces. My search quickly expanded to the cupboards, the larder, fridge, freezer and even inside the microwave. I sighed as I remained empty-handed.



I then remembered putting the bins out after a good hour nagging from the missus, so I took a torch and headed out into the front garden to inspect the contents of our bin bags. Whilst rustling through old newspapers and soiling my fingers with damp coffee grounds and moist potato peelings and the remains of last night’s dinner, my next-door neighbour came bustling out onto her porch sticking her beak in again.



“Who’s there?” she asked, in her usual shrill voice into the cold, misty night “I’m calling the P-”



“It’s just me, it’s George Parker” I assured her.



“Oh, well, what are you doing out here, in the dark, at this time of night?”



“I’ve lost my bloody glasses!” I said, still fumbling with the contents of the black bag.



“When was the last time you saw them?” she asked.



“Well, if I bloody knew that I wouldn’t still be looking for them would I?” I replied, rather rudely.



“Have you tried your car? You were working on it this afternoon in your garage. Quite loudly I might add” she said disapprovingly.



“I thought you might mention that” I said coyly, dropping the bag and wiping my hands on my handkerchief. “I’ll check now, thank you Mrs Pewterschmidt” I said, making my way over to the garage.



I flicked the light switch and waited, rather impatiently, for the knackered old light bulb to fire up. “I really need to change that infernal thing” I complained to myself. I gave up, and began to feel my way through the darkness to the far wall where the key hook is.



“Ouch!” I groaned as I stubbed my toe on the desk, the lights finally fired up just as I comforted my toes with my hands, hopping like a kangaroo on a pogo stick. “Sod’s fucking law” I said as I reached for the keys and deactivated the alarm.



I looked on the dashboard, the glove box, under the drivers’ seat, under the passenger seat, in the boot and even under the bonnet! No glasses. I sat in the drivers’ seat and gripped my hands on the steering wheel, clenched my teeth and shook the steering wheel as hard as I could.



My eyes fell onto my Parker Pen in the Cigarette Ashtray in front of the gear shifter and I remembered having my glasses on when writing my memoirs, in my study, before dinner. I got out of the car, set the alarms and put the keys back onto the key hook, then made my way to the study, optimistic that I would finally find my glasses.



I looked through my papers, which were strewn all over my desk, ripped the drawers from the desk, rifled through the filing cabinets and even went through my waste paper bin. No glasses.



“For fuck sake!” I screamed, collapsing into my leather chair behind my desk. I then heard my two children Ryan, 17 and Megan, 13, thundering down the stairs and into my study.

“What’s up Dad?” they said, in unison.

“I can’t find my fucking glasses!” I ranted.

They laughed.

I glared at them sure that my face was red as a chilli.

Megan came and sat on my knee, reached above my head and said, “They’re on your head, Dad!”