I can see clearly now the specs have gone - Susan Morrison
and live on Freeview channel 276
For one thing, I could never keep them clean. This became one of life’s endless mysteries. Why were there always smudgy fingerprints all over them? It's not like I’ve spent a lifetime shoving my fingers in my eyes.
I once cleaned my glasses following a chemo session, and was astonished to discover that foggy vision was not, in fact, a side effect.
They were a liability under the glare of stage lights. I couldn't see the audience. I tend to spend a lot of time blethering to people, and that’s hard if you don’t know if you are talking to Stephen or Stephanie.
At one student event a young chap simply wouldn’t talk to me at all. I came off stage, looked at the front row and realised I hadn’t been speaking to Stephanie’s boyfriend, as I thought, but her jacket over her backpack on the chair next to her..
In my defence, in a certain light and with dodgy eyesight, it did look a bit like a bloke with blue hair and those are ten a penny up the Uni these days.
So, I thought. Something should be done. Earlier this year I went to a rather swanky clinic and stared into various machines. A nice young man told me that my eyes couldn’t be lasered, but the lenses could be replaced.
Oh, I said, that sounds kinda serious. Haha, he laughed in a carefree manner, not a bit of it, he said. We just pop out the old lenses in your eyes and pop in funky hi-tech ones. You'll never need glasses again.
Now, I have mentioned this word ‘pop’ before. It is beloved of medical professionals from practice nurses to consultant surgeons. It usually hides a more complex procedure. For example, a nurse asking you to ‘pop’ up onto one of their slightly too high treatment couches. Women of my age, girth and build do not ‘pop’ up. They clamber, with all the grace and dignity of a giant Galápagos turtle hauling itself out of the sea.
You’d think, therefore, that I’d be on my guard against casual popping, but no. That all sounds straightforward, I thought. Let's pop these eyes, baby.
Last week, I found myself back in the swanky clinic, and at some point I realised that popping out those old pesky lenses meant actually cutting into the eye. I should never be allowed out on my own.
Let’s just say that it wasn’t exactly a spa day out. Afterwards, I had big plastic shields over both eyes, and spent the rest of the day staggering about like something from a David Cronenberg film.
The next day I got up and rootled about to find the leaflet that came with the eye drops. I read it all, even the very tiny print.
Amongst the side-effects, it said I could expect to see more urination and I might still be capable of impregnating a female.
This was the leaflet we got when we had the boy cat done. Nevertheless, I read it. Without glasses.
I can see clearly now, the specs have gone.