It all started with an innocent WhatsApp message.
“Has anyone got any spare eclipse glasses? I left it too late and can’t seem to find any!”
Little did I know it but this benign missive, sent to my local community choir group on Monday morning by a nice woman called Sarah, was the unwitting catalyst for what would quickly become a deranged, Race Across the World-style quest to secure a pair for myself. My own personal odyssey, if we want to be culturally relevant.
Within minutes of her original plea, there were multiple replies. “The print shop have got some, I think – heading there ASAP!!!”
“Try the newsagents on Bouverie Road, I got some from there yesterday but they were limited to five pairs per person?”
“This link looks good – currently saying will deliver before Wednesday [prayer hands emoji].”
I’ll be honest – while I’d heard some chatter about the solar eclipse happening on 12 August, prior to this stream of “hot tips” and warm leads I had given it almost zero thought. But the funny thing is, as more messages came pinging in – “sold out online!”; “print shop has run out!”; “newsagent out of stock!” – I suddenly wanted, more than anything else in this solar system, to get my mitts on a pair. The scarcity mindset had officially set in. I struggled to focus on anything else for the rest of the day.
“They’re being stupid – it must be possible to buy them on the internet,” I thought, scornfully. “You can buy anything on the internet. That’s why it’s killing off independent businesses so effectively!”
But, of course, my lovely choirmates weren’t stupid at all. The idiot was me – blithely assuming I’d be able to casually buy a pair two days before the UK’s most complete eclipse event in 27 years.
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open image in galleryThe more I looked online, the more panicked I became. Every single purveyor was either out of stock or advertising a delivery date of Friday 14 August at the earliest, two days after the fact. Yes, even on Amazon Prime. Getting hold of a simple strip of cardboard with black plastic lenses that would ensure I could safely look upon a burning orb 93 million miles away was proving not just tricky but nigh-on impossible.
Still, this was all currently playing out in my humble hometown in Kent. Heading into London to go to the office, I reasoned things would be different there. The Big Smoke, the economic hub of this great nation, would surely be selling specs on every corner.
Alas, the situation in Folkestone was indicative of what was unfolding across the country. A cursory Google search showed that the market in London was just as much shaped by supply < demand and, consequently, the only viable strategy was to comb through a random assortment of Reddit threads and Facebook posts like a detective on the trail of the Zodiac Killer.
Jessops were said to be selling pairs, but whether or not there would be any by the time one arrived was unclear. Greenwich Observatory seemed to be the safest bet, but they warned of limited stocks (and, quite honestly, it was a mission from the City).
open image in galleryThere were whispers of some being sold under the counter at a specific bakery by Bond Street tube station, rumours of a single convenience store near Aldgate East that had a fresh batch. Booze and Essential Putney “had 90 pairs this morning”; Snax Wimbledon “just got 300 pairs, apparently”. There was a 2am queue in Whitechapel of insomniac stargazers desperate to get some.
It was while picking through the comments underneath a post from “Muswell Hill Group and Friends” on Facebook in response to the news that Fresh Bakery in Finsbury Park had been flogging them that I realised I had accidentally become part of something – a new tribe of people driven slightly insane by a dearth of resource. “Anybody know if it is open now and if they have two pairs in stock??” wrote one anxious soul. “Driving all the way from Muswell Hill.”
And it was while dissecting a separate social media thread based on the keywords “solar eclipse glasses”, “where”, “buy”, “TODAY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD” that I happened upon my best, most tangible lead yet: an underground WhatsApp group called Solar Eclipse London.
That’s where things truly got weird. This mysterious enterprise, whose WhatsApp community had only sprung into being on Sunday, seemed to have “ISO 12312-2 certified” eclipse inventory up the wazoo and was deploying it strategically across London. Different locations at different times; limited “drops”, with hype built by trailing cryptic clues about the next ballpark area without details of the exact whereabouts.
I realised I had accidentally become part of something – a new tribe of people driven slightly insane by a dearth of resource
“Finsbury Park, we’re coming soon.”
“We have a big surprise for everyone. There is a location with over 2,000 waiting for you all. Will reveal at 2.30pm.”
“Hint being sent below”, with a picture of the glasses against a backdrop of Big Ben.
And, my personal favourite, “The location rhymes with Chutney??”
The marketing was flawless, as was the entrepreneurial nous; within the space of a few hours, the WhatsApp community had grown from under a thousand-strong to over 7,000 (and by the end of the day it had hit 9,000). And then they hinted Liverpool Street was the next station for a forthcoming “shipment”, which just so happened to be around the corner from my office (#blessed). The exact location, however, would be shared on their Instagram – with instructions to “FOLLOW AND LIKE!”, another excellent marketing ploy for engagement – and pairs would be limited to two per person. Each one would cost £5, cash only. Oh, it was on.
I grabbed two colleagues to ensure we could obtain the requisite number of pairs and headed out into the unknown, refreshing the Insta account every 10 seconds like a woman possessed. Finally, aha! “Old Spitalfields Market”. Still vaguely imprecise, but enough to go on.
open image in galleryThe nearer we got, the more suspicious we felt. Was this all a weird prank? Was someone going to jump out and shout “Punked!” in our faces, like a Noughties Ashton Kutcher, as we stumbled around the precinct?
But any reticence disappeared once we spotted that most British of spectacles: a queue. And not just any queue. This one was long, winding, and stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see. Word had obviously spread quickly and, within minutes, the line had grown so long I could no longer see the end of it.
No point wondering how the heck hundreds of people had arrived before us – witchcraft seemed to be the only plausible explanation – we were in it now.
“This is the second location I’ve tried today,” shared the man directly behind us in the queue, with a mildly manic, desperate air. “Finsbury Park sold out this morning – I’ve just been waiting around for the next drop!”
I briefly wondered whether, if I managed to obtain some and he didn’t, I’d be altruistic enough to give up mine to this more deserving soul. No, came the disconcertingly cold answer from deep within. You snooze, you lose.
This is the second location I’ve tried today – I’ve just been waiting around for the next drop!
A desperate man in search of eclipse glasses
Still, there was a conviviality about the whole thing – a curiously carnivalesque spirit. People in the queue caught eyes and smiled shyly, or exchanged tales of their previous attempts to obtain a pair by trekking the width and breadth of London based on little more than hope and hearsay. Perhaps it was being drawn together around the same wholesome event, but a similar feel to that of the World Cup prevailed among these stressed yet jubilant Londoners: we were experiencing another common cause to unite us in these increasingly divided times.
We shuffled forward excruciatingly slowly, every passing minute cranking up the tension another unbearable notch. Unlike some of the other WhatsApp updates, this one had failed to include the number of spectacles on offer. There could be 30, or 300, or 3,000; there was no way of knowing.
After 20 minutes of inching along, we could finally see the front of the line. This, I knew, would be the exact moment they ran out of stock – when we were in first spitting, then touching, distance. The universe’s sick sense of humour all but guaranteed it. We were eight people from the front now. Five. Three. But, wait… They weren’t going to run out! The universe was on our side!
As we arrived at the kiosk, handed over our crisp, £10 notes, joyfully took our strips of cardboard gold and punched the air in triumph, I felt what can only be described as a shot of pure exhilaration.
Sure, it was more work than clicking “next day delivery” on Amazon – but a victory earned through the thrill of the hunt? That tastes all the sweeter.