Over the years that I have been going to my regular eye test, little has changed. My left eye has been consistently more fuzzy than my right and both have gradually lost a little acuity but nothing more. Instead of the optician physically holding lens A or lens B in front of my eye after asking me to close the other, the principles are the same. This basic examination is now padded out with a variety of additional tests that you may have at your discretion. Puffs of air so gentle as to feel like the touch of a lover. Candid photographs of my retina complete the illusion. I can even have a 3D image of my retina for a mere £28 plus VAT. But what would you do with a 3D retina? Use it as a paperweight? Or as a lure to confuse fish? As Christmas tree decorations perhaps?
I can’t tell you because, being a tight Yorkshireman I decided to forego this particular wallet disembowelling. I shall never know what compelling uses were available.
As I leave the testing room I am guided subliminally through The Hall of Designer Frames while the optometrist prepares my printout prescription. It’s a bit like trying to catch a flight at Gatwick where, however pressed for time I am, I still find myself unable to escape the endless chicane of duty-free whisky, Cologne and Toblerone.
Back to the eye examination. The optician begins the examination by asking, in a rather to light manner, whether reading is important to me. I’m instantly alert wondering whether this polite enquiry is the harbinger of an optical apocalypse. Or just small talk. But it does at least guarantee him my full attention to this new direction of enquiry.
Eventually, after a gentle prod or two, the optician emerges with the prescription and the ever helpful, perhaps that should read overhelpful, sales assistants put a brave face on their inability to equip me with frames by Gucci, Lacoste, Givenchy or any other of the many giants of the optical sciences. Twenty years or so growing up in Doncaster has equipped me with all the skills I will ever need to dispatch overzealous sales peeps.
But this year is different. I have been aware for a while that my eyesight has deteriorated beyond what is typical of my age. No gentle slippage of focusing points, no mere inability to read the bottom line of letters on the charts. No, something is up. I notice quickly that the optician takes longer with each lens change, repeating anything marginal. This is new. At the end, he asks me to remain seated. He looks momentarily uneasy before slowly and clearly explaining what he has observed and deduced therefrom and what it means to me.
He then goes into the “well I have some good news and some less good” spiel. I invited him to start with the less good. Apparently I have cataracts and not just in one eye. Whereas a gentle, almost veiled clouding of the left eye had been the previous test result, the right eye is now much the more concerning.
So extensive is the cloudiness of both sides that, he is pleased to tell me, they are above the critical level for treatment. It is hard to believe that that can is considered good news. I am to be referred to an ophthalmic surgeon for treatment.
We discuss various options and causes of why it has progressed so quickly and where it is going. It could be down to the Parkinson’s in part, he says.
A sort of Parky Blinders I suggest. He doesn’t get the joke.