On Eyesight Again

I’m sorry Whizz; I know you think I am always picking on you but this was too good to go unblogged.

So: We are great aunt and uncle, roles I approach with mixed feelings. I once had a great aunt, she wasn’t a maiden aunt, well at least I don’t think she was, she was certainly married but had no children and, well, I couldn’t imagine her bonking – but anyway… When I think of the title Great Aunt it brings her to mind and although I was fond of her I wouldn’t want to be compared with her.

Whizz has been away for weeks in Australia and China and we hadn’t had a chance to visit our new Great Nephew so of course it was the first thing we did, the day after his return.

It was a glorious day and the family was gathered in the garden: proud parents and grandparents, admiring great aunt and uncle and bored second cousin – Mavis. So out came the tennis trainer, a rather sub standard version (in my humble opinion) of the Jokari which I used to play as a youngster.

Whizz, very concerned father as always, was demonstrating to Mavis how to hold the tennis racquet and she, eager to show her prowess, swung the racquet back smartly, a little too smartly, and made contact with Whizz; the side of his eye socket to be precise.

When he had stopped seeing stars he noticed that the sight in one eye was blurred. I, with my customary mother’s sympathy, told him it would probably be fine in the morning but when, the following day, his sight was still blurred, he took himself off to spend Fathers’ Day in the accident and emergency department of our local hospital, having been to the gym and feeling perfectly fit. No head aches, no other ill effects at all.

He returned to our consternation after 4 or 5 hours of gruelling waiting and a bit of an examination, with an appointment with the opthalmist the following afternoon. There was talk of detached retinas, concussion, who knows what else.

So, the following afternoon I waited anxiously for his return. He was later than expected so I was becoming quite worried when he bowled in through the door, whistling to himself.

So what had been wrong with him? You might well ask . Well I asked myself the very question and then I asked him.

His reply: “Bent glasses.”

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