For hire - professional dog shit locator, no turd too big or too small.
Thankfully not my actual job although it might as well be. Since multiple sclerosis reduced my eyesight to something Magooesque last year I can hardly set foot outside without plunging the highest quality footwear into a steaming stool. The flip flop days of summer do not auger well.
I'll happily concede that people face much greater difficulties than a soiled trainer but I find the regularity somewhat tedious.
Losing your sight is not a joyous thing, one eye and you can get by with little more than minor adjustments and inconveniences. Two and you're fucked. Having said that, in spite of my often acerbic persona I am in fact an eternal optimist, I would ordinarily have used the phrase 'blindly optimistic' but I thought it might be in poor taste.
As there must be some benefit I could derive from this, I tried to imagine positive situations not requiring sight. Bingo! Blindfolded sex. Not necessarily my bag but if E L James can amass such a fortune with the literary ability of a bonobo, there's obviously a place for it. Sadly I soon realised that walking into things, spilling drinks, falling over etc. did not benefit from a fifty shades type frisson just because I couldn't see. In retrospect I'd been rather naive; it's all about context and situation. You may find driving your car wildly exciting but should your lights fail in a tunnel, you'd be petrified. In a similar vein, an avid proponent of S&M may delight in having his nuts nailed to a dungeon wall by a consenting partner. Less so his boss stapling them to his work space during a weekly 'catch up'. One might say that I'd led myself down a blind alley.
Focus Timothy, focus, other positives will surface. And surface they did. I'm pumped full of steroids, or roided up to use the popular gym parlance. Not for me the steroids which sculpt the body into taught, rippling muscle and sinew. No no, I'm on the ones which create a ballon/moon face as favoured by ginger haired soul sensation Mick Hucknall. These have also resulted in the growth of two brand new tits – so far. I've mixed feelings about them as they're undoubtedly nice to have, it's just that they're located in my arm pits. Had they have been more centrally located on my torso I could have pulled off the feeding sow look quite well. Swings and roundabouts I suppose. On a separate note, the armpit tit is a huge evolutionary oversight. Should one be lactating, a swift birdie song style swing of the arm could dispense nutrition to hungry infants with ease.
In much the same way as we remember James Dean, River Phoenix and Jeff Buckley as the handsome young talents they were, I too can find comfort in the fact that, to me at least, I will always be the forty two year old adonis of 2015 as that was the last time I saw myself clearly in the mirror.
Oh and as an aside (not an Assad), my body has come to represent the Syrian crisis as my leg hair has migrated to the 'Western Europe' of my back. Not sure if this is related or just more 'luck'.