My husband had Laser treatment on one of his eyes on Friday afternoon. We booked a 6th floor corner room in a nearby hotel, where he was to recuperate that evening. I'd had my own laser eye surgery almost a decade ago (date: September 12th, 2001 - talk about opening your eyes to a "whole new world"), and have enjoyed great vision ever since, so he was quite excited about "eye fizz day".
After the operation, he put on a massive pair of sunglasses and we emerged into the snow of Manchester, walking through a German Christmas market to get to the hotel. He can't have been in that much pain because the first thing he did was insist on getting Starbucks. I think that if people have had surgery, they should at least be indulged afterwards, so I'd bought some chocolates from Selfridges and he had a nice mixture of various ganaches and pain-killers while tucked up in bed.
Laser eye surgery has come a long way since I had it. He has been given a complicated regime of four different types of eye-drops, that have to be adminstered at different points (about every 30 minutes on average). So that's what I'll be doing for the next month. And unfortunately, I have discovered that there is no way that a man can give another man eye-drops on a crowded train platform, without drawing attention to himself. Still, he's experienced no pain at all, unlike me - who was transformed into a crouching, shrieking bitch within an hour, once the pain-killer wore off.
That night, television was out of the question so we did the crossword in the Manchester Evening News, then he asked me to entertain him by reading out the most depressing stories - there was a particularly tragi-comic one about a man who had kicked his partner with his wooden leg after flying into a rage when he'd misplaced his tobacco box. The fact that the police had been called out 67 times already, and that "she still loved him", made it verge on the tragic rather than comic.
We then listened to a CD of a Radio 4 Agatha Christie dramatisation called "Towards Zero", which I last read aged 13 and had no memory of. I am getting quite good at working out how Agatha Christie's brain works, and guessed "She always makes you suspect it's the most obvious person, then it turns out they have an alibi so attention goes elsewhere, but by the end it turns out it was the most obvious person after all." We ended up having a long disagreement over whether one of the murders actually was a murder. It involved an elderly and frail judge who had a heart attack upon climbing a staircase as the "murderer" had put a sign on a lift saying "out of order". My husband said it was a clear-cut case of murder, but I pointed out that nobody had put a gun to the judge's head and forced him to climb the stairs. Agatha Christie - still providing controversy in the 21st century.
I had been intending to look out of the window that evening and claim to have seen a wonderful display of celestial fireworks (as in Day of the Triffids). Then, in the morning I was going to pretend that the world had ended and he was the only person to have survived. My friend Tim had even suggested that I rub two cabbages together, in order to emulate the noise of Triffids outside in the corridor. But he woke up with perfect vision, so instead he tested his new eye by successfully reading all of the signs on the buildings opposite.
Now that I have a partner with good eyes, I am slightly worried that he will noticed that I am no longer in my 20s. You can get away with quite a lot when you know that you look like a post-impressionist print. Now that I'm in HDTV maybe I should start a moisturising regime...