There are an awful lot of plasma-screens in my new office. I
squint at them.
New Boss: Do you need glasses?
I tell him a story.
Me: I tore the corneas of both my eyes.
Me: I know.
NB: What happened?
Me: I wore contact lenses for years, but my eyes are a funny
shape. ‘Pointy’, according to my optician. Don’t know how many years he spent
at Optician School to come up with that diagnosis…
I wait for the expected snort. I’ve told this story a
Me: So I couldn’t wear the soft ones. Too big, they’d just
fall out because of my ‘pointy eyes’ [I make the ‘inverted commas’ gesture with
my fingers] So I had to wear the gas permeable ones. They’re really small. And
they’re like glass. I wore the same pair for eight years. My eyes changed
shape, the contact lenses didn’t and my eyes got all fucked-up.
NB: Fuck mate. Sorry.
It’s a true story. What I never mention is that it was years
ago and my eyes healed without any trouble and that I could very easily wear
lenses or glasses now but can’t be bothered. I can see two foot in front of me
– beyond that I really don’t care what’s happening anyway.
But that wouldn’t be such a good story. Stories are
important things. And words are powerful things.
And besides – it’s just a small story.
Like this one.