22 June 2016
I have some new glasses. I mean the type that correct your vision, not the type that hold gin and tonic and therefore don’t assist your vision at all. The new glasses are called “varifocals”. You are only allowed these when you are too old and weary to complain about not being able to see. Because this is the principle on which varifocals work. There is a small region in which things that are 6.2 metres away can be seen in pin-sharp detail. There is a small region in which things that are 18.4 cm away can be seen in pin-sharp detail. In between, and all around the edges, are regions in which everything swims hazily in no kind of detail at all. When you move your eyes, the world bends. Therefore you are not allowed to move your eyes. At least, not without moving your whole head as well, so as to maintain focus on the pin-sharp detailed object that is precisely 6.2 metres away and that you must not lose sight of because it is your only reliable point of reference and without it you will fall over. I had kind of got into the habit of moving my eyes in order to see things. It does not come naturally to stop. I traverse the kitchen with robot-like pin-sharp precision and impatience, unnerving my family no end by taking three seconds to bring their faces into range before I speak to them. When I speak I say: “I hate my new glasses. Where is my gin?” Eventually I promise the youngest one extra pocket money to follow me round all evening, holding a gin and tonic precisely 18.4 cm away from the focal point of my right lens. He is happy to oblige.
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