A fussy little man

There is a history in my family of sight problems, and I have a slight genetic risk of becoming partially-sighted. This doesn’t bother me at all, since the condition only becomes serious if it is neglected. The odds of this happening are very small (I don’t even wear glasses), but it means I need to have regular eye tests by a specialist.

I have just had one of the tests.

The optometrist occupies a three story Georgian house at one end of the market place in the local town. You go up three high steps and push open the front door (which is on a spring, so you have to push hard to get it open). Inside is a large communal room, very well-appointed, with heavy swag curtains, and deep pile carpets. All around the walls are elegant hardwood stands with displays of glasses. On plinths in the centre are glass heads, wearing glasses.

There are always several assistants flitting around the place – women in their late-twenties or early thirties, attractive in a refined sort of way, dressed in dark grey and navy blue (they are not in uniform, but certainly uniform colours have been specified). They always move quickly. There is always a quiet hush to the place. At a big Reception-type desk is the optometrist’s wife, a hard-faced and unsmiling woman, thin and angular, with grey hair in a severe style. An exception to her austere appearance are the diamond rings she wears – her fingers are adorned with stones of such size and magnificence that it is a wonder she can lift her hands. Behind her, on the wall, are two simple drawings in gold frames, each sporting the signature “Miro” (surely they can’t be genuine!).

The usual procedure was followed. I was asked to wait, and then (after about five minutes) asked to go to the Reception desk. The optometrist’s wife made a quick call, then asked me (or was I told?) to “Go through please”. Going-through meant going through a door opposite, crossing a corridor, and going through another door (I always feel I have to knock, even though I am the client and paying for the eye test).

Inside is the optometrist’s consulting room, a spacious room got up like a gentleman’s study – more of the deep pile carpets, a leather Chesterfield sofa, Victorian-style “partners” desk with matching chairs (his with arms), more of the deep-blue swag curtains (always kept closed in this room, the electric light on). On the walls are three professional diplomas from Durham University, and four or five very attractive hand-coloured 19th century prints. Adding a sinister note to this domestic graciousness is a series of large medical contraptions all in shiny chrome and gun-metal grey.

The optometrist is a fussy little man, very plump, in his early sixties. His head is almost bald, with some grey hair at the sides and back. He wears spectacles, a pin-stripe suit (grey), white shirt, gold cuff-links. Unlike his wife he is amiable and avuncular, with a very soothing northern voice. The eye test takes about forty minutes and consists of a rapid sequence of examinations at all the different machines.

The two of us move about the room at a bewildering pace – first at the desk where he asked a series of questions, then I sat in a huge contraption and my sight was tested, then to a machine where I had to look into a light and click a button every time I saw anything move, then to a machine where I looked into a green light and the optometrist sitting opposite was able to look right inside each of my eyes, then out into the corridor and up a back staircase to a tiny dark room where I sat at a machine and jets of air were blown onto my eyes… All the time the electric light was going on and off (most of the exercises had to be carried out in darkness), and the optometrist was talking, talking, talking (talking, but not really saying anything, since I had no idea what was going on). Each time the electric light was switched off the darkness was complete except for a subtle light that illuminated a big 19th century water-colour of a market scene (a sheep fair, gentleman-farmers in top hats).

We finished up sitting on the Chesterfield sofa, and he suggested things I should be eating to help my eyes stay strong (fresh vegetables, less fat, all the usual advice) and recommended some vitamins I could buy (only available from optometrists!). Then back across the corridor where one of the assistants took my credit card and charged me £70 for the session.