HAVING blind - or "visually impaired", as they don't call themselves - friends opens your own eyes.

For a start, you learn that "registered blind" doesn't always mean totally without sight. Don't assume that you, or what you are doing, can't be seen by someone with a white stick. You learn to warn quietly of steps and obstructions, and don't hitch two wheels on to the pavement when parking in a narrow street. OK, I know it's not legal anyway, but an awful lot of drivers do it and I've never seen one with a parking ticket. Nor do you park, even "just for two minutes" in a parking area for disabled people.

You also learn that organisations geared up to people with poor, or no, sight, don't always think things through. A common assumption is that, in every household with one of their patients (or clients, or whatever they are now) there is also a sighted, and print-literate, resident. It ain't necessarily so.

I used to have to read appointment cards from an eye infirmary which weren't even in good, contrasting black and white large print, but in standard-sized blue type. I've also had to deal with much more personal things.

Organisations which offer their information in the range of languages our polyglot society needs may offer it in large print or on tape, but not in Braille. We've come up against a few stone walls there in recent months, even with the help of a health professional friend's access to the organisations involved.

But what got the steam coming out of my ears was a recent incident in a hospital reception area.

Even with a blue badge on the dashboard, there had been nowhere to park, not even though I'd have paid, as everyone else has to do, when the few special spaces were full. We weren't alone. One poor chap was asking at the security cabin where he should park. "I've waited three months for this appointment," he stormed. "And now I'm going to miss it because I can't get a parking place."

Luckily my passenger was a member of a nearby organisation with a small parking area unlikely to be full mid-afternoon. We chanced it, were lucky, and hurried back.

Arriving in reception, just in time, I stood aside and my passenger, with her white stick and her appointment details, went up to reception to ask where to go.

Without a glance at her, other than to register that someone needed attention, the receptionist said: "See that door over there, marked Mary Smith?" Not the real name, but it will do, and, as for seeing it, it took me all my time to spot it, across a large and thronged area.

It's a big and busy hospital, there would have been no-one free to act as guide, but few people arrive alone. An aware receptionist could have said: "Right, Mrs X, it's across the other side, have you someone with you?" I have to say I was more angry, in the car on the way home, on her behalf than she was. Why? Because she's so used to that sort of thing.