Today, I went to my local optician instead of going to one of
those big chains. It had been seven years since I'd been to that
particular one, but it took me rather less time to remember why there
had been such a hiatus. Back in the day, they used to have this lens
plastic swing on a bracket jobbies that I'm not very good at
describing. Apparently they're called refractorheads.
The point is, they'd done away with these and got some much cheaper
metal glass rim jobbies (ha!) which were somewhat unpleasant, to say
the least. They'd actually managed to downgrade this piece of
equipment to such a level that it was like an instrument of torture
from the past. Or the future:
They didn't go quite as far as to show me two girls and one cup. “Do the women who are doing unmentionable things look clearer with the first?... Or second?...” Still, it made a bad feeling in the guttywuts right horrorshow. Ha! Microsoft spelling and grammar utterly spazzed out with that last sentence- perhaps it's not a fan of A Clockwork Orange. The point remains though that the facilities at this place were more than a little rudimentary. Still, that's all fine. Costs have to be cut somewhere, and I was helping the little guy.
I had gone there because of a persistent ache in my left eye, feels like it's strained or bruised. The optometrist took note of my symptoms and got this suspiciously evil looking contraption out... “Okay, I'm going to use this magic squirty thing to gauge the pressure in your eye... Don't worry if your eye hurts when this shoots into it and takes a reading, that'll just be the asbestos.” “Wha- ARGGHHHH!!!” “The pressure seems normal.” “Why on earth would you put asbestos in there?!?” “You don't want your eye to catch fire, do you?” “Erm... No?” “Well then.” Eventually, he told me that I'd got a little bit blinder but that there's nothing visibly wrong with my eye apart from a tiny allergic reaction to asbestos. “Come back in a couple of weeks if your eye's still feeling dodgy, and we can at least squirt some asbestos in the other one so they look as shit as each other... But now I want you to talk to a woman who might well get commission, which would certainly explain her sneering and unhelpful attitude if you decide to not purchase her wares.” So off I trotted to someone who we shall call Mutton-Dressed-as-Lamb-Bitch. Mutton-Dressed-as-Lamb-Bitch seemed very proud of the 10 glasses that she stocked, and unaware of their astronomical prices. I tried on one or two, and noted with mild surprise that they didn't make me look any more of a twat than usual. Still, I could do better, and cheaper. I said to her that I would go further afield to Colchester to get my spectacles. Mutton-Dressed-as-Lamb-Bitch was not exactly enamoured with that idea. “You fucking what? You're a fucking idiot!” “Eh?” “My fragile little mind simply cannot cope with the idea of someone getting an eyetest at one opticians and then getting glasses from another! That's like cheating, you adulterous little shit! Would you ever go to a different pharmacy or go and see another hairdresser behind your regular one's back?!?” “...Erm...” “You would as well, you little bastard! What if the other opticians have a problem?!? You'd be caught between here and there in some sort of purgatorial netherworld!” “What sort of problem with my eyes could possibly cause a schism between two optician firms?” You know, a problem!" “Well, I'm going to give them my prescription from here and they'll recognise that the optometrist has been to optician's school and trust his judgement. If there is a problem, I'm sure their vast wealth would be able to purchase something or someone to sort it out, or provide me with ample compensation.” I'd just like to say, the above may have been paraphrased an eensy bit, but the following is a direct quote of Mutton-Dressed-as-Lamb-Bitch: “We'd rather you didn't do that in future. It would be better if you don't come here again.” I'm inclined to agree with her.
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