The eyes don’t have it

My most recent optician’s bill had a small deduction, on account of some NHS voucher that the computer system invoked without any explanation. As usual I can’t tell whether it’s because my poor eyesight—diopters 8 and 10, with some cylindricality that I can never remember—qualifies me as legally blind, or whether the above prescription counts as a complex lens, as both might be said to influence the final amount in the same way. But I think I have to be registered with the local council if it’s the former: for “blind” read “severely sight-impaired”. With the right lenses I can see you from here, you know.

Striking a blow for affirmative action, I’ve managed to get some glasses that make me look almost normal and in no way like some sort of spaz. The heavier lenses are pricier, mind you; but still, ten NHS pounds off a £250 bill is, er, oh, less than the amount of Boots points that K. managed to accrue off the receipt for the same. As long as she doesn’t spend it on Revlon and awful dietary carob bars when I’m not around, that’s all.

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