Beyond a toothbrush and a sturdy pair of shoes, there’s little in life that is truly essential. Except, perhaps, a good pair of sunglasses. When I was a kid, the sun was considered a force for good. As time has gone on, it has been regarded less as the giver of life and warmth as it has a giant death orb that is trying to destroy human civilization as we know it. Between climate change, heat waves and the tyranny of daylight savings, people today must take all the precautions they can against this rampaging celestial predator.
Beyond a toothbrush and a sturdy pair of shoes, there’s little in life that is truly essential. Except, perhaps, a good pair of sunglasses. When I was a kid, the sun was considered a force for good. As time has gone on, it has been regarded less as the giver of life and warmth as it has a giant death orb that is trying to destroy human civilization as we know it. Between climate change, heat waves and the tyranny of daylight savings, people today must take all the precautions they can against this rampaging celestial predator.
I have always struggled to find sunglasses that suit my face. Sadly, this says more about my face than it does about sunglasses generally. But having found a pair that does not make me look as if I am about to be extradited or readying to perform ‘Georgia On My Mind’, I must ensure that I protect them as surely as they protect me. There would be nothing worse than to have the ideal pair of sunglasses and to lose them. That, indeed, would be a tragedy.
Before a family holiday, my father splashed out and bought himself a new pair of sunglasses. At the time, ‘Le Specs’ were very popular and considered the height of sophistication. As this was the late 1970s, it is fair to say that the height of sophistication at the time was only about three feet, four inches. It was a simpler age. Back then men wore moustaches not for a month and for charity but as means of expressing their testosterone-fuelled manliness. They wore shorts and long socks not in irony but with heart-felt pride. Flannel hats and thongs were considered formal wear, ‘Passiona’ was the country’s favourite soft drink and chest hair was a reliable indicator as to character. They were, indeed, the days of wine and Cadbury ‘Roses’.
The great thing about ‘Le Specs’ is that they weren’t just for arty intellectual types. The commercials made much of the fact that these sunglasses were close to unbreakable, describing them as ‘Le Tough.’ I very much doubt that the French word for ‘tough’ is, in fact, ‘tough’ and am foggier still as to why a pair of shades would be described as ‘the tough.’ However, issues of translation mattered little in 1978. No doubt impressed by the television commercials, my father marched right into the nearest chemist and demanded a pair of Le Specs.
He emerged into the sunlight as proud as could be, a pair of new sunglasses on his face. They did almost everything short of prepare a salad. They locked out the harmful UV rays, they would not break if accidentally trampled under foot and they were incredibly stylish. Particularly if you were a lady.
I don’t know why my father bought ladies’ sunglasses. Whether it was just a moment of confusion or whether he thought they suited his face, he didn’t say. But he wore them everywhere. To be driven into Frankston by someone who looked like Elton John’s butler was beyond embarrassing. But the fact that our father’s facial furniture appeared to be on loan from Dame Edna Everage did not bother him in the slightest. Given that there were five children in our family, the claim to being ‘Le Tough’ was thoroughly tested. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes calculated. But despite repeated assaults, they remained immune to our attacks.
In the end, it wasn’t brute force that brought about the demise of our father’s Le Specs sunglasses but gravity itself. We were on holiday in Tasmania. For reasons that now elude me, we believed that family holidays should consist of extended periods of time in a confined space. My father hired a mobile home and we drove around the state. The locals were quite obviously aghast at my father’s feminine sunglasses. Keeping their distance, they seemed to regard us as members of some strange cult. Our parents’ fondness for dressing all five children identically probably didn’t help. The lady shades, without doubt, sealed the deal.
By the time we reached the township of Strahan on Tasmania’s rugged west coast, we were all in need of a little space. Perhaps that was the reason my father was so quick to book us on a boat trip along the Gordon River. The crew eyed us with suspicion and, spotting him as a potential troublemaker, may well have considered tying my father to the mast. As the boat wound its way through the wilderness, the river guide regaled us with tales of the west coast’s brutal past. It was fascinating and my father appeared to be at peace. Leaning on the side rail, he took a long look at the forest and the mighty river Gordon.
Perhaps sensing their chance to escape, my father’s Le Specs glasses leapt from the bridge of his nose and into the swirling waters. There was no saving them. They might well have been Le Tough but they’d now need to hold ‘Le Breath’ for the foreseeable future. The sunglasses that had so often escaped destruction had finally run out of luck. Maybe it was the Strahan that broke the camel’s back. My father reluctantly returned to the chemist and chose a less flamboyant pair of sunnies. Secretly I was happy. To this day, I’d like to think there’s a fish in the Gordon River, wearing a very stylish pair of ladies sunglasses. I just hope they suit his face.