I got an urgent call from the Social Secretary at work one day. She said that she had been up by the compost heap when she came over all queer. Everything had gone blurry, and she had felt suddenly nauseous. She'd gone to bed and felt better there, but every time she got up the giddyness and nausea returned.
I was worried. I've got one of those books. The Reader's Digest Medical Adviser. It's crammed with aneurysms and clots and similar bad stuff. It's a scary book, because it makes you fear the worst.
As I cancelled meetings I rang her at intervals. She was no worse but no better, and I told her to stay in bed with the curtains drawn until I could get back.
Then she called me. She was suddenly better. "What happened?, I asked.
"I put on my glasses to try getting up again," she said, "and then I wiped them."
"That made you better?", I said.
"When I wiped them, my finger went through. The lens had fallen out. I've just found it up by the compost heap. I'm fine now"