My eyes were dreadfully itchy when I woke up this morning. I staggered into the bathroom and examined myself in the mirror. Before me was a fine figure of a man. I scooched closer to look at my eyes. They were bloodshot and sore looking.
Can't be hangover eyes? I thought. I didn't actually drink that much last night.
I looked at them again. It was like looking at a pair of well-chewed dog's testicles. Or to say the phrase in proper Glasgwegian.
My eyes were like dug's baws.
How quaint, my mother tongue.
I came downstairs to my loving family. They were pottering about as if I didn't have some kind of emergency eye situation going on.
Hello?
I greeted them.
Morning Daddy bear.
They all chorused as if they couldn't give two hoots for the medical emergency that was going on, live, in their very own home.
I made my way to the sofa and collapsed in it with a groan. No-one ran to my aid. I whimpered slightly. No-one noticed.
I jerked upright and yelled incoherently.
My daughter looked over.
Daddy, sshh. I am trying to play.
My eyes. My beautiful eyes!
I burbled, thrashing from side to side.
The good lady looked up from her phone.
Look at the state of your eyes? You should go to the pharmacist.
I stopped thrashing about and opened one of my crusty red orbs.
Yes, yes I must.
And so I found myself in the nearest supermarket that had an in-store Pharmacist. Standing before a sullen looking woman.
How can I help you today?
She drawled at me.
I opened my crablike peepers.
Could I have some eye drops for my eyes, please? I think I have some kind of infection.
At the merest hint of self-diagnosis, the woman's hackles raised visibly. She metaphorically paced around me, growling menacingly, rope-like saliva dripping from her jaws.
What makes you think they are infected?
She narked through flared nostrils.
They are hot and itchy and red and bloodshot.
She looked cross. As if I had wrapped a red ribbon around my penis and had presented it to her as a belated Valentine.
Do you have any discharge?
Now it was my turn to look offended. Discharge? What did I look like? A man who slaps his roaring thomas into any old random?
She sighed dramatically.
From your eyes.
Yes, lots of yellow gooky mook.
What about pain?
Only from this conversation.
I beg your pardon?
Nothing. No, no pain.
She put her hand on her hip and looked at me waspishly. Fortunately, the itchy gyp from my eyes prevented me from getting a semi. She retrieved a box from a shelf behind her and plopped it on the counter.
Alright then, I suppose you can have these.
Well, thank you very much my lovely.
She flinched. Obviously unused to a man as handsome as me referring to her as lovely.
I paid for the drops and as I left I tried to wink at her but instead, due to my eyes, I just looked like an ill, crusty faced dog trying to catch a fly in its mouth.
I returned home, happy at the thought of being reunited with my loving family who would no doubt nurture me and care for me through the course of my terrible eye affliction.
I put my eye drops in and limped pathetically into the living room. No-one noticed me enter. I threw myself on to the Sofa and muttered something about resting my eyes. No-one asked how I was or where I had been for nearly an hour.
I got eye drops.
I said to the room.
That's good dear, can you take the bins out?
The good lady murmured whilst reading her Kindle.
What? Is this how a soldier is treated upon return from a victorious battle? Is this how a dragon pup is celebrated upon making it's first kill and returning to the nest? IS THIS WHAT BEING A MAN IS LIKE IN THE 21ST CENTURY??
Aye, I'll take your bins out.
I muttered darkly.
No-one noticed as I grumped from the room.