So- date night.
Take away.
Done.
Bottle of wine.
Done.
Mind-numbing film that doesn’t involve too much thinking.
Done and done.
In fact the movie was so successfully dull that I nodded off
halfway through, which is a bit of a signature move.
Only to wake at 3am sat upright on the sofa with a blanket
over me like an old lady.
This is the level of sexy I operate to these days.
It was then I realised that I still had my contact lenses in
and that one had totally disappeared down the back of my eye.
Now, I like to think I’m calm in a crisis.
That I don’t get worked up about the small stuff.
So I did what any level headed 30 something, mother-of-two
would do.
I panicked my face off, poked around so much with my eyeball
that it was so sore I couldn’t open it.
Then woke Ben up by ugly-crying and blubbing that I thought
I was going to go blind.
One phone call to NHS Direct later and I’m in a taxi to A
and E with a taxi driver who kept reassuringly telling me they'll just 'pop your eye out.'
He said it about a hundred times.
'It's fine, they just pop your eye out.'
'Just pop it out, then pop it back in again.'
He said it about a hundred times.
'It's fine, they just pop your eye out.'
'Just pop it out, then pop it back in again.'
There’s nothing like queuing up with people who have
dislocated their shoulders, broken a foot or have an open head wound to make
you feel like a bit of a weaner with your lost contact lens.
But, as is the nature of our excellent NHS, no-one made me
feel like a dick.
They sorted my eye out, gave me some antibiotic cream and
sent me on my way.
And by 5am I was back in bed, with a pointless one hour of
sleep before the children woke up.
Not the best date night to so far.
But on the bright side, it can only get better.