People often say to me, "Doctor, can you check my cataracts for me?", which is a difficult question on so many levels. I generally tell them I can't do it without my stethoscope, and leave it at that. But the fact remains that I spend a lot of my working life indulging in protracted cataract chat with people of a certain age.

As the knowledgeable and experienced ophthalmic surgeon I'm often mistaken for, I'm regularly asked about the intricate details of pseudophakia (which is someone who pretends to sleep on a bed of nails), and whilst I have a working knowledge of cataract surgery, it's only really working part-time on the minimum wage. And it phones in sick a lot.

So what I really need is someone with first-hand experience of being at the sharp end of the surgeon's knife, who can fill in the gaps in my knowledge, and provide me with the insider information I need. Someone prepared to go undercover into the very heart of the operating theatre, and report back on what they find. Assuming they come through the anaesthetic without permanent brain damage.

And the good news is that I've found someone. I've successfully persuaded Lisa's Mum to take one for the team by having one of her cataracts removed this morning, just to help with my research. Admittedly it might improve her vision too, but primarily I just want to hear all the gory details, and have a look at her stitches.

She was booked in for 9:30 this morning, and word has reached me from the Sussex Eye Hospital that the operation was completed successfully. They're hoping to tag and release her this afternoon. She was originally planning to recuperate by spending the night at our flat and letting me debrief her on the sofa, but the last I heard, she was insisting on going back home. Either she's heard about Amelie's night-time conversations, or she's worried she'll get a kitten in the face.