Jeez, the nights have started drawing in, haven’t they. Depressing, really.

I got home last night and gave my incoming mail a cursory glance. A shrinkwrapped Private Eye magazine, an OpenPlan mortgage statement from The Woolwich (only £84,465.97 still owed, I’m getting there, slowly) and something from Specsavers. I ripped it open, with the feverish excitement I reserve for pointless and expensively-produced customer mailshots. “Dear Mr Marsden,” it opens, reasonably accurately, “You may not realise, but your last eye examination was on 19th June 2001! Please call us now to make your next appointment.” Well, I had my eyes tested about 18 months ago at the same branch of Specsavers, so I can only assume that they’ve got two records for me. I made a mental note to write them a letter criticising their sloppy database management, and went to bed.

I woke up at about 6.30am because I’d forgotten to close the curtains – I can’t wait for those mornings to start drawing in again, really – so I got up and did some work, which mainly consisted of this (a gold star for anyone who can pinpoint what on earth I was attempting), and then felt tired at about 8.30am, so I had a nap. At 10am I woke up again (stick with it, by the way, it gets slightly more interesting) to find that I couldn’t see properly out of my left eye. Horribly blurred, couldn’t focus on anything. I rubbed it, to dislodge the inevitable mounds of gunk that build up over my cornea while I’m unconscious, but I still couldn’t see properly. I went to the bathroom, perspiring slightly, I washed my face and rubbed my eyes again. No luck.

At this point I started to panic, so I rang my mum, because if there’s one thing she can do fantastically well from a distance of 50 miles, it’s restore the sight of the recently blinded. “Go to the doctor,” she advised. “No,” I said. “I won’t get an appointment. I’m going to Specsavers.” I arrived at their gleaming Mitcham Road branch, perspiring even more than I was earlier, and in a slightly panic-stricken voice said “I can’t see properly, help me” or something. “Have you been here before?” asked the receptionist. “Yes, yes,” I said impatiently, grasping for imaginary objects around me to stress to her the gravity of the situation. She took my name and address. “Ah yes, Mr Marsden, here you are.” “By the way,” I said, “When did I have my last eye test?” “18 months ago,” she replied. “Thought so,” I said.

I underwent the most thorough eye test I’ve ever had. It lasted about an hour and a quarter, although part of that was spent waiting for some magic eyedrops to disable an eye muscle so the optician could look deep into my aqueous humour. “Hm,” he said. “What?” I cried, gripping the arm rests of the adjustable seat. “I’m just going to fetch my colleague,” said the optician. I imagined the two of them standing round me, saying “I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. Shall we operate immediately?” In the end, though, they decided that I had an enormous floater, and possibly the tiniest amount of retinal scarring, which is weird because I’ve never accidentally stabbed myself in the eye when chopping vegetables, or anything. They decided that I had nothing to worry about, but I should go to the doctor and check my cholesterol and blood pressure. “Are you calling me fat?” I asked.

At about 2pm, my sight started returning to normal, and now I feel jolly enough to fling the Specsavers mailshot in the waste paper basket and continue with my day. Now, where was I?