I went to the opticians last week. I hadn't had my eyes tested for seven years, and can no longer see anything through my glasses - so decided a visit might be appropriate.

I felt my way into the opticians. I started by looking at all the new frames. There were dozens of them.

I tried them all on. Disappointingly, from the blurry reflection, none of them made me look younger or more virile. Some of them made me look like a stalker. Others made me look cruel. I liked those.

After a while, an assistant came up to me. I didn't see him coming. As I said, I see very little these days. Supporting Middlesbrough, it's for the best really. I made the mistake of saying to the assistant, `Which frames suit me?'.

When I said this, I wanted lies in return. `They all suit you' would have done nicely. `You have a classic face sir - with your finely chiselled features any glasses will do' would have been ideal.

What I got was, `Well not those - your face is too round'. Too round? Too round? Like Charlie Brown? My face is a dinner plate, is it? How very dare he. I was enraged. Absolutely enraged.

The Assistant - who was pretty porky himself, I may add - then picked a frame out for me. `These are more appropriate'. Appropriate I thought? How dare he. He was right. They were better. I liked them.

Then the Fat Assistant With More Chins Than Me said, `No - they're too young'. I don't know if this is how he gets his kicks. Cruel barbs, under the guise of optical assistance.

Too young, I thought. One more insult and - if I can see him - I'll hit him.

He then produced another pair. Again, the Walking Pig was on the ball. I really liked these. Chubby Chops looked at me. I detected sexual tension. He was crushing me, to build me back up. He frowned. Pleasingly his chins really started to spill over his cheap nylon shirt.

`What do you think?' he said to me, in a squeaky effeminate manner. `I like them', I said in my special guttural way. `Do you not think...', he started, and then stopped. We looked at each other. `Do you not think...', he said again.

I was a stooge in a sketch - awaiting the next verbal custard pie in my round face. `Do I not think what!' I said, all Alpha Male. I knew it was going to upset me, but I had to hear it.

And then it came, `Do you not think they're a bit too ... fashionable?' ` No - they're fine', I said. Fashionable indeed! `Right', said Pig Man Bull Neck, `let's get an eye test sorted for you then'.

The eye test was essentially a series of medical experiments involving high powered blasts of wind on each eyeball, a woman dancing around me in the pitch black putting lasers of blinding light against my retinas, and pictures of hot air balloons. Honest. If you don't believe me - have an eye test. I think it's just that opticians are unpleasant people.

They have us - we're there because we can't see much - and so they put us in dark rooms and play with us. Who's going to believe us?

Could you describe the person who put a wind tunnel on your eye? No. It's our word against theirs. And it's not right.

The optician tortured me for about half an hour. I told her everything. I told her about stealing Lemon Bon Bons from Woolworths and everything. And still she tortured me. At the end she gave me her summary of my eyes.

I need varifocal lenses. This is because my eyes are next to useless. She told me I've got astigmatism. She told me this is normal for People My Age. People My Age.

The insults just kept on coming. She explained that this means my eyes aren't the right shape. They're oval. Not round. They're not right. They're weird. So I need varifocals.

And then she concluded, `Generally you have healthy eyes ... but I have spotted that behind your right eye you have what is essentially waste material'.

`Waste material ... what on earth is that?' I asked, somewhat alarmed. I imagined crisp packets, and empty cans rolling around behind my eye.

`It's nothing to worry about - it's just an ageing thing - the waste material has nowhere to go, so it settles behind your eye.

`It's just something to keep an eye on', she concluded. I love that phrase - It's Nothing To Worry About. Not for her, certainly. I bet she won't give it a second thought.

Why did she tell me at all? I'd have happily lived in blissful ignorance. I've thought of nothing else since. It's particularly at the forefront of my thinking at around four o'clock in the morning. Waste material. It sounds awful, anyway, doesn't it?

I don't want waste material anywhere near me. I don't want it in my house. I don't want it in my street. I don't want it in my community. I've got it behind my eye.

I think this is pretty much the worst case scenario vis-a-vis waste material. With that, she pushed me out of the door, into the bright lights of the shop.

I can't be certain it was her, but someone booted me up the backside. While I was disoriented, I was sold ultraclear lenses, sunglasses, a hearing aid, a pair of hush puppies and a hat.

I left, without a penny to my name, but with my waste material safe behind my right eye. Any optician tales, and has anyone been given a more disturbing diagnosis?

robert.cuffe@btinternet.com