GOING to the optician's proved to be a lot more fun than I had expected — and I had not expected much fun.

I had never been before but going to see the doctor or the dentist is never a bundle of laughs and I guessed people peering into your eyes would be similarly lacking in joyous wonder.

My daughter led the way, taking me into town, partly to make sure I didn't get lost but, mainly, I suspect, to ensure I fulfilled the appointment rather than enjoy a nice cup of coffee in Markies before returning home to say the optician's was shut — as if I would do such a thing.

It meant we arrived right on time.

I had assumed the place would be full of people falling over chairs, bumping into each other and walking into walls but no, it was all cool and friendly efficiency.

A nice young lady greeted me, led me to a comfy chair and in a few minutes I was called into a little room, instructed to perch my chin on a padded rest, peered into a set of lenses and asked if I could see the balloon.

It was a large, multi-coloured hot-air balloon hovering above a long, straight road.

I could see it — but I wondered if it was trick question, the sort where if you see a balloon you are a loony, if you see a pink elephant you are sane and if you think it's a man with a top hat on they call the police.

I have found through bitter experience that if you try to beat these sort of tests you can end up a journalist, so I decided to tell the truth, which seemed to make the pleasant lady happy.

It won me the right to go on to the next stage which involved looking at bright lights and having air blown into my eyeballs. These lasted a bit longer than they should have because I am not very good at staring for long periods and every time a light flashed or a chill wind headed eyewards I blinked.

After that there came the serious business, looking at a card of letters on a wall. That was easy because all the letters appeared to be Bs, Vs or Ds.

Read the third line down said the optician. I stared, I squinted and I saw: B, B, V, B, D, D, B. She changed lenses. I scanned them: V, B, B, V, B, D, B.

For some reason she said I needed glasses — but not just any old specs. They would be something called various focals which are pretty clever devices that enable you to drive a car and read a book — without changing glasses.

The one drawback is that they take a bit of getting used to and for a while you have to move your head around to get the object of your eyeballs into focus. So if someone appears before you bobbing about, don't be afraid, it will be me trying to lock on.

After all that, they asked me if I wanted my hearing tested (I think) but I said no, having just been told how much those state-of-the-eye glasses with frames were going to cost. Then it was all over and I was outside.

I have to say that I was a bit disappointed that my old eyes had failed the test — until a chap walked out of Pinder & Tuckwell's, took one look at me, smiled a big, wide smile and said: "You're Geoff Worrall, I love your stuff."

Which only goes to show there is always someone worse off than you.