Notwithstanding fog and heavy rain, I’ve been out this morning, paying a visit to the optician.
Regular readers will know that a couple of weeks back, I broke my glasses. They proved beyond repair so this morning I went for my eye test, which because I’m diabetic is supposed to happen every 12 months. I wasn’t far out. It’s only 2½ years since the last test.
We went through the usual rigmarole: which line can I read on the chart (printed in Huddersfield) does this lens make the circle appear clearer or fuzzier (what circle) and so on.
Delivering her summary, the optician, a pleasant young woman who reminded me of Mina Anwar, said I had two small cat attacks, but they were nothing to worry about.
I found this slightly disconcerting for the simple reason that we don’t own a cat. True, we do get them calling into the garden, but usually when we open the back door they bugger off.
Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, I asked, “What do we do about them?”
“Normally, they zap them with a laser.”
I was appalled. I mean, I prefer dog to cats, but I wouldn’t hurt your bog standard moggie. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?” I asked. “And how did these cats get to attack me in the first place?”
The light dawned in her eyes. “Not cat attacks,” she shouted. “Rapper tracks.”
As far as I was concerned, this was just as mysterious. “Well, I can’t understand that. I only listen to classical music, not rap.”
She groaned. “CAT-ARE-ACTS. Don’t you have any hearing aids, Mr Robinson?”
“Course I do. But who takes hearing aids along for an eye test?”