Rugby balls. That’s my problem, writes blogger Andy Richardson. My eyes are shaped like rugby balls.

There’s an ophthalmological term for my condition: astigmatism.

How do I know this? Well, millions of years ago, way back in December, I decided to buy a pair of contact lenses. Or, rather, I decided I’d like to buy a pair.

I ventured into a well-known High Street optician, one which regularly advertises the ease with which people can purchase visual aids.

I was given an appointment, made to feel welcome and asked a range of questions. ‘Marvellous,’ I thought. ‘Isn’t this easy. I’ll soon be seeing life as clearly as Kevin Pieterson sees a cricket ball.’

The optician even explained how my optical system was one where rays that propagate in two perpendicular planes had different foci. How about that? It almost made me feel special. It certainly made me feel clever. I actually
understood him.

Four weeks later…. Nothing. No lenses. No appointment. Diddly-squat.

I got back in touch with the optician. Suddenly, it seemed, I’d morphed from a must-be-pleased, roll-out-the-red carpet customer to the downtrodden, worthless and unimportant extra who appears in the Nationwide Building
Society advert.

Staff at the optician had taken on the demeanour of Mark Benton, the infuriating bank clerk who flogs “Cracker-Jacka-Tracker” mortgages.

“Just wait there for a minute,” I was told. “A minute turned to five, turned to 10, turned to 20…..”

Two weeks later, my lenses finally arrived. It was like looking through a comedy mirror at an oblique and drunken world. Quelle surprise.

“We’d like you to keep them, sir,” said the optician. “Why?” I asked “I can’t see through them.”

“But they’re yours. They’re free. You can take them for a two-week trial. But be careful if you’re driving, it might not be safe if you can’t see through them.”

I struggle to comprehend that a qualified optician offered that advice.

Yesterday, after a further wait of three weeks, a letter arrived inviting me to an appointment at my optician. The store’s team of crack experts had lovingly crafted a new pair of lenses.

I pondered it momentarily and made a decision: Balls. Rugby balls. I think I’ll stick to glasses.