I went to the opticians, and guess who I bumped into?

Everybody.



Two-and-a-half happy years ago I became a customer of Guy's Opticians in Withington. I love the glasses that I've worn since then, rimless, square lenses, a good fit to my face. But they've seen better days. Time to upgrade.

"Better with lens one, or lens two... lens one, or lens two..."

The eye test is very intimate. I can't remember where, but I once read that the blinding of Oedipus represented a castration. For eyeballs, read just plain old hairy balls. And to have your balls examined, something so delicate and vulnerable so near to someone else's face - it's odd, to say the least.

"Have you ever tried contact lenses?"
"No."
"The fitter is here today. Would you like to?"
The fitter? It's a specialised job?
"Erm...."
"No obligation. Just try them out?"
But what if I become an addict?
"Er... okay."

A greasy man with a nasal voice and a limp handshake welcomed me into his private room. Row upon row of minute plastic shelving - the kind that an over-eager dad would separate different gauges of screw in - lined his walls.

Chit-chat: "What do you do? Oh that sounds very interesting," he muttered, "I had no idea." Building a rapport wasn't the guy's strong point. Nor, it seemed, was fitting contact lenses.

"You've got very strong eyelids, some of the strongest I've ever seen..."
...don't worry, we're in no rush, I'm very patient...
...can you just TRY to relax your eyes PLEASE Mr, Mr...
...oh, there we are, oh, NO, NO, NO, DON'T BLINK, oh no...
...can you PLEASE turn your eyes and not your head...
...right, DON'T MOVE, okay, they're in..."

All this as he's poking my eye. It was like he was prodding my balls, and I was flinching each time. I didn't like him. But I didn't mind the one lens he's managed to get in. My other eye is too mongy to be in stock, they said, could I come back next week? I don't think I want contact lenses.

"Sure, is there an appointment available around 10am?"