It was only on Monday morning when it dawned on me I might have missed the boat. I had no solar eclipse glasses. I knew all about this celestial event after reading the newspapers, each one reminding me to purchase the special polyester and aluminium sun-proof glasses. But like a lover who had left Christmas shopping last minute, I had messed up. Time was not on my side.
The last time Britain experienced a solar eclipse was in August 1999. I was four years old. Blur had released 13, The Matrix captivated audiences, and I was too young to understand why a man named Tony Blair would help my education. I don’t remember the eclipse, but I do remember the nights when Dad became an amateur astrologer, a Stars in Their Eyes contestant, crouched low next to me pointing out Ursa Major and the Big Dipper in our back garden. In that spirit, I wanted to honour his fascination with the cosmos.
Present day, and the chances of me finding a pair of solar eclipse glasses was extremely thin. I started making inquiries and offering rewards on various WhatsApp groups. Amazon was offering a pointless delivery date of Thursday. Users on a now defunct Reddit thread scoped out shops in South Kensington, but one 24-hour corner shop in Aldgate East drew my attention.
“We’ve run out of glasses,” the tired-looking shopkeeper said, to me and the five others queuing behind me with the same request. “But we have a special delivery coming in from Spain to Heathrow at 1am if you write your name down and come back later.” I decided I had to do it. After a quick afternoon nap on Monday evening, I took the last train back to Liverpool Street.
After midnight, the shop was still glaringly bright – its white LED lights training my eyes for the Wednesday sun. Outside, a young lad leaning on his delivery bike said he had stopped accepting orders to wait. “My mates said they would give me half of the money to cop the glasses,” he said. He was planning to buy 15, which made me nervous.
A father, Mohammed, told me his son had coaxed him to come here. “We’re coincidentally in South Wales on holiday tomorrow and he told me: ‘Daddy, we don’t have the special glasses to see the sun!’ I can’t let him down so here I am.”
More and more people started descending onto the shop. People seemed impatient. One woman remarked to her husband that if this was 1999, solar eclipse glasses would be included with every newspaper and scavenged in cereal boxes. Finally, as I reached the front, I was given four pairs of glasses: three for me and my flatmates, and a spare to give to anyone in need. This was my penance for, once again, leaving everything to the last minute. I bundled myself into a taxi home. I could hear Dad’s voice scorning me for being too laid back.
On Chingford Plain, at the start of Epping Forest, the sky was crystal clear. I divvied up the glasses between my flatmates as we watched the crowd swell. Children brought footballs and kites. Adults, prosecco and camping chairs. Several colanders and makeshift pinhole cameras weighed down blankets. A compilation of Bob Marley’s greatest hits peppered the air.
A young woman, Sara, cracked open a bottle of non-alcoholic beer and told me she remembered squinting at the eclipse wearing her grandad’s welding helmet back home in Crikvenica, Croatia. “He was a carpenter and loved to build things. I remember feeling how lucky I was to see the total eclipse.” I mulled over the days where Dad would build science projects for me to take to school.
The partial eclipse soon cast itself over the sun. Whoops and cheers broke out as the eerie muted twilight descended upon us. It was as if someone had turned the contrast up by 30 per cent. I would like to say, in the new dull light, this auspicious moment had brought together friends and total strangers, reminded us what is good about our country. But really, I felt exhilarated and nauseous. On the way home, I called my Dad to tell him I love him.
[Further reading: Dancing at the epicentre of Irish suffering]
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