Beauty is in the cross-eye of the beholder.

When I was a little girl, my mum would spend a lot of time telling me how beautiful I was. And how I was going to be at June Dally Watkins Modelling School, or be Miss Australia. I must have been about 6 at the time. Clearly Mum was spending way to much time smoking weed and listening to Meatloaf.
This went on for ages until her best friend Lois pulled Mum aside and said she was doing me damage telling me how beautiful I was, when clearly I was not.
I have no idea what she was talking about. I was lovely.

Me aged 6. I can hear you laughing you bitches.

Along with a few other unfortunate features, I was as blind as a bat and had one eye which actually pointed directly towards the tip of my nose. It threw off the fact that I had totally fucked up teeth. There was talk of an operation and subconsciously I must have known about the pulling power of The Secret way back in 1979 and I magically healed myself. No Shit. Email me and I will give you my Mum’s number if you don’t believe me!

Fast forward to modern day and it was a straighter toothed and nit free version of myself who presented to Mr Optometrist this morning for a thorough going over as I suspected my eyesight had finally started to pack it in.

I was right. I am quite blind when trying to read things up close.

He asked a billion questions. Any diabetes in the family, any heart problems in the family, any history of stroke in the family etc. Do you smoke? AS IF!

The only thing smokin were my super hot and healthy maculars which he took a photo of and pointed them out to me, along with my optic nerve. Then he took me into the showroom and became a fashion consultant, assisting in talking me into a pair of Bvlgari glasses which are now my most treasured (expensive) possession.

He told me I looked beautiful in them. I told him to back off or I will send my boyfriend Hugh Jackman in to sort him out and smash up his shop a bit.

So I am back to being four eyes.