If you’ve been following this trusty correspondent over the last 17 years (Good Lord! Has it been that long?), you will know that I – well, I won’t say suffer, let’s just say – tolerate high pressures in my eyes. can thank my lovely late aunt, A.J. for this phenomenon, as I apparently copped her genes in the eyeball department.
For the last (mouth full of socks) years, I have indeed suffered an annual eye test known as The Humphrey. I know not who Humphrey was, but I’m quite positive he was horrible, possibly kicking small kittens and pulling wings off flies in his spare time.
The test isn’t painful, it’s just painfully boring, and it is there to test your peripheral vision, to make sure you’re not quietly and unknowingly going blind while the eye pressure turns into glaucoma.
I am pleased to say my peripheral vision is still hale and hearty. Sadly, this is not the case with my darling Sir.
I would like a moment’s silence over your oatmeal this morning as I reveal to you that I am on the brink of becoming immeasurably wealthy and famous, tragically at Sir’s expense.
I have discovered a new eye disease from which he suffers. I love him to death, and he’s such a good egg that it so saddens me to announce that he has S.P.V.
Selective Peripheral Vision – it’s a nasty little bugger too, because it comes and goes seemingly at random. But after many years of study, I think I have it pegged and I’m ready to receive the Nobel Prize whenever they want to throw it my way.
His occurs almost like clockwork in the kitchen at the dinner clean-up moment. We have a rule – well, I have a rule, truth be told which he has wisely followed – that whoever does the cooking doesn’t do the cleaning and I have discovered that unless I stick the dishes firmly up – er – his nose, they just don’t exist.
I’ve tested myself and if I stand at the sink my peripheral vision will indeed pick up the roasting pan sitting on top of the stove, and when I turn around to head to the computer, I know I will trip over the butter and the salt and pepper still sitting on the table. Poor Sir at this point needs the white cane and seeing-eye dog as these objects have just plum disappeared.
I have tested my theory over years of studious observation, and I know his condition is selective, because if I place a piece of chocolate – oh let’s say in the next room, he can home in on it with bat-like precision, but woe betide me if I leave a piece of odiferous cheese destined for the fridge on the counter as it will spread its miasma throughout the house before it ever finds the soothing coolness of the fridge if left to Sir’s power of observation.
He’s the laugh of my life – oh sorry, I mean the love of my life. Shame about the vision though.
-- Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at email@example.com.