I had an inkling that the visit to the Optician wouldn’t go well the moment I walked through the door.
The snotty woman behind the counter took my details and asked me to take a seat.
She then offered me a magazine to read.
I enquired as to whether she was taking the piss and she looked blank.
“I’m here because I can’t bloody see and need new glasses! Reading a magazine is the last thing on my mind”.
She looked huffy and went away.
Fucking fool.
Unluckily, I got the same bloke as I had before and we hadn’t exactly hit it off.
That time when he was looking in my eye, with his face 2mm from mine, I said,
“No tongues!”
He hadn’t brought a sense of humour into work that day.
I said nothing this time and let him get on with it.
My eyes are cool. The prescription hasn’t changed and I am still Glaucoma free.
Then came the horrific bit.
The bill.
£203!!
“Christ!” I said, “If you are going to do me from behind at least pull my hair!”
Fortunately, Mr Optician had punted me on to a ‘Frame Consultant’ bloke, who did have a sense of humour.
4 comments:
Humour such as yours is a fearsome thing, and fills those without any with fear and trembling. The optician immediately realized with you that he had no power, and that was a good thing.
Lenten.. It doesn't take a genius to slip various bits of glass in front of my eyes and say,
"How's that?",
until I say,
"That's it!"...
I did all the fucking work!
Hmmm I think we go to the same opticians. Receptionists shite, optical doodahs are good at their jobs but arid but the googles guy is quite groovy.
Sassy.. The baldy guy was sound!
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