I don’t think I’ve attended an eye clinic since I was four.  Two surgeries by that age and I still got called cross-eyed for years!

After rolling out of bed, driving the wrong way and negotiating the crap signs at Calderdale Hospial I somehow found the clinic in a basement called “Ground Floor” and was attended to in good time.  A sight test where my left eye nailed it beautifully and my right eye was a bit rubbish.  As expected.  As usual.

Thn the dilation drops.  Sweet Lordy poke my eye with a hot pokey thing instead next time that was horrible!

Then disaster.  A forty minute wait.  Not the wait, just the lack of phone signal.  Like hell on earth.  One of my reasons for getting a 30gb monthly data plan was my fear of being stuck in an NHS hospital without wifi.  The things you worry about when you’re staring death in the face!

Next the consultant with the unpronounceable name.  And a nice looking nurse who spent the entire appointment playing with her nails.  I know I’m utilising a drug that costs $90,000 a year but perhaps there are other efficiencies that can be made before they stop treating me.

Anyway, after a lot of finger waving, yellow dye adding and observing my eyes he concluded I had Bell’s Palsy, ordered a scan just in case and prescribed me some eye gel and different drops.

Then something of a bombshell.  He tested my ears.  Fine in the left.  Partially deaf in the right.  Most likely as temporary as the Bell’s palsy.  Or maybe it really does pre-date everything.  I had no idea.

I book an appointment for a month time, ensuring it doesn’t clash with my Ulster trip, and wander out of the hospital into a gloriously sunny day.  SMACK.  Mr consultant, next time please warn me that my dilated eye is going to suffer horrendously and advise me to wait half an hour before returning to daylight!

Ah well, football later.  I’m sure the roar of the Jimmy Fizzell stand will reawaken the ear as the boys in blue create a pleasing performance for my eyes.

The Eye Clinic