Why Eye Oughta.

Yesterday, I spent twenty minutes incapacitated in Wilko car park because I had a bit of grit in my eye; I sometimes wish the ground would swallow me up.

The Theatre of Conflict.

The most annoying part, besides the grit, was the fact I’d made a conscious decision to leave my bag in the office rather than take it with me, which I’d otherwise always do. If I’d taken it, I would have had a bottle of water and some tissues with which to construct an ad hoc eyewash. Instead, all I could do was rub it (my eye, that is); blinking constantly while tugging at my eyelid.

I genuinely felt trapped. I couldn’t go in the shop without looking strange, and I couldn’t stay where I was without seeming suspicious. I ended up walking to the far end of the car park to where I’d be almost out of sight, but this only made things weirder. Every so often, someone would come out of shop's exit and walk past at me; keeping a fully-functioning eyeball trained on my definite questionability.

It was so bad, I briefly considered phoning my wife to see if she could pick me up, before remembering I’d also left my mobile at the office. There was nothing I could do but keep jabbing at my sclera (Google it), in the near-vain hope that the little piece of dust would fuck off.

After what seemed an eternity, it cleared, enabling me to reach my budget shopping destination, where I made a beeline for the mirror section. I looked like a massive narcissist. Thank God I’m not part-gorgon; if I were, there would have been no way to check it.