Almost. I only ordered them today. In a refreshing change from the nownownow! world in which we’re supposed to live, it still takes a good week or so for a master craftsman to lovingly precision-grind a perfectly-judged set of lenses to my exactingly personal specification. Or, more likely, for some oik to push a few buttons on a machine and, scant seconds later, fling the cast-off results into a jiffy bag, but I prefer the former image and, frankly, who’s to know?
In the end, I ordered some terribly marvelous retro-modern objets from a deliriously tiny boutique so chic they don’t even do their own examinations – no no, that would not do, for this place is so specialised they only do frames. They’re so exclusive, their London outlet isn’t even open any more. So so exclusive, the only reference to them I can find online refers to other websites, entirely hidden from my view, supposedly relating that the likes of Kevin Spacey and Elle McPherson shop there (and Ewan McGregor, but I forget – do we like him again, or not?).
Somewhat embarrassingly, the Oliver Peoples frames I’ve ordered come in cheaper than the almost-but-in-the-end-not-quite-right Booth and Bruce pair from my worryingly quiet local high street optician. I’m not sure what’s up with that. Perhaps I’ll multiply the cost by a random factor (say… three), then alude to that in a darkly mysterious fashion.
About a week, anyway.
Oh – I’m sorry – you want to know what they look like, eh? Um… well… they’re… oh, you’ll have to wait and see. If I said they were acrylic, retro, and green tortoiseshell, you’d get an impression that, while technically accurate, doesn’t exactly do them justice. Besides, I’m blind as a bat, so it’s not like I’ve seen them myself. I can’t even pick them out from the manufacturer’s online catalogue.