I remember at the age of four some white coated person coming to our school to test our eyes- we had to line up and sit on a wooden chair in the middle of the hall. The chart was hung on a board, not on the wall itself, but on this free standing board well away from the wall. I remember being conscious of the fact that my eyelashes were brushing the palm of the lady’s hand as she covered my eye.
Apparently I couldn’t see a thing out of my left eye. Nothing. They were astonished, and sometime shortly afterwards Ma Kartoshka had to march me up the incredibly steep hill to the hospital where they shone all sorts of little torches into my eye in a darkened room that smelled of stainless steel.
The eye was perfect.
For quite some time Ma Kartoshka went on about this unnecessary journey to the hospital- which she described as traipsing. I had enjoyed it; it reminded me of the pre school utopia, being out in the streets when other people were either at work or in school.
I don’t remember, but apparently I confessed that my left eye blindness was caused by boredom. Reading the set of letters twice? No thank you…
A similar situation arose when I was fifteen. This time the procedure was more clinical, more efficient, and apparently my eyesight was now genuinely defective. The person conducting the test couldn’t believe that I didn’t wear glasses already. I read the letter confirming this on the way home. I showed it to Pa Kartoshka.
You don’t want glasses, do you?
That was the end of that- I survived another year or so in the claustrophobic grey blur of myopia before finally yielding.