My dearly beloved tiptoed around to my side of the bed to kiss me goodbye before he set off to work. Well, I say tiptoed, but actually he fell over my discarded clothes and went tumbling into my bedside table, dislodging a teetering pile of books and sundry items, including, as it transpired two hours later, my specs.
As usual, I managed to go straight back to sleep after he had left, not waking until my alarm went off at seven-ish. Flailing around in my shortsightedness, I was perturbed not to be able to find my glasses, but after much squinting and carpet-patting I found them and put them on - at which point I realised that while one arm fitted snugly over my right ear, the other was heading up towards my left eyebrow. I deduced that my poor glasses must have been injured in the earlier commotion and come up against a size 11 workboot.
Not that I said any of this to the patient lady at the opticians. 'How did it happen?' she enquired. 'Oh, you know,' I replied. 'Just life.'