The artist put on his £1 Primark sunglasses and opened the door.

He stumbled a little descending the steps.

He couldn’t see a taxi, only the surgeon starting his engine for a weekend getaway. Then the surgeon beeped his horn and gesticulated behind his car. The artist could make out another vehicle, a blur really, but a sign on the side suggested that this was his transportation home.

Off they sped, whilst he tried a few times to send a text, photographed himself, scrawled some notes in his journal documenting the previous couple of hours even though, in retrospect, this makes no sense and is almost illegible.

That journey was a surreal experience. He felt like Bill Murray’s jetlagged Bob from the start of Lost in Translation, when he’s being driven into Tokyo and can’t keep his eyes open but when he does, has to rub them to see he wasn’t imagining the sights.

Now the Dock Road isn’t quite as exciting as Japan, but the artist genuinely felt he had been on a long flight, drugged or something as he was going “goz”eyed and wanted to fall asleep but couldn’t rub them, no – no touching or wetting of the face for two weeks, he had been given strict instructions about that. Added to the fact that the driver did not know where he was going, there were a couple of wrong turns, before he arrived home safely, bumped into a neighbour who thought he had bad hay fever, and who has always wanted to have their own eyes lasered but was too scared.

The dark glasses stayed on.

That evening was uncomfortable, and not just because his loyalties were divided whilst listening to England play Algeria. The painkillers wore off and the drops were put in at regular intervals, in fact his hands had never been so clean (he had to use the sanitizer before administering every drop) but he was well looked after and after a couple of vodkas, slept tremendously. Despite the necessary night gear:

The following morning, and clarity.

He could see himself in the mirror. Read the time from the alarm clock. Even noticed this little reminder of the fortune tellers on the way into town:

It had all been worth it. The people at the clinic were impressed too, thought he artist was slightly dubious at the brevity of the test. 20/20 vision so soon?Had things really improved so dramatically over night? It seemed so, certainly.

He returned to work, and colleagues were fascinated by the new look. They didn’t seem to miss the old him. And as the days went on, images got sharper, but the eyes also got redder, which caused some concern, and for three days there was a fibre stuck in one, eventually removed during the second, more rigorous, follow-up check. 

This check-up brought really good news for him, and no more drops. Tonight he will sleep without the piratey patches too, things have really changed overt he past couple of weeks, well, changed back to normal. The thin, finewriter outline that was missing for seventeen years has miraculously returned.

Only it was not a miracle, and he now admits he has not become a superhero. If anything it’s a transformation to normality, and an everyday alter ego that he now celebrates dressing up as. The forewarning of the two-faced one has been dismissed, as the character disappeared as quickly as it emerged, or threatened to at least, killed off by laser technology in the space of ten minutes.

But, whilst the artist now sees clearly, he feels that his future is clouded with uncertainty…

Maybe it is time to revisit the fortune tellers.

So there I was, led into the operating theatre, iodine around my eyes, giving the ‘old’ me one last new lookalike.

 The events of the afternoon had raised certain questions in my head, and here was their catharsis. I genuinely believed, for a short while at least, that this was all an elaborate hoax, and the characters I had encountered were actors paid for their involvement in my incredibly complex narrative. It was like the Truman Show meets Total Recall or The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, especially the later two when scientific organisations are discovered to be set-ups, the smiling receptionist the happy facade of a more sinister network. It was more like The Prisoner – being driven to a strange location, other fellow patients wandering around wearing dark glasses, tests and torture and asking for information…

But I had to stay strong. They had, after all. asked my consent to film the operation – a bit like this, for those less squeamish amongst you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rW2wijHGVHQ&feature=related

At least, then, I knew I would have some documentary evidence of what they were about to do to me, and, they been very honest with me, the lady’s description of what was about to happen was realistic, quite graphic and at odds with how an evil scientist might have lied about the subsequent procedure. Still, I asked to be excused to the bathroom, and said receptionist looked peturbed when I came out and nipped upstairs.

I returned, and finally the time had come. I wore a hairnet and blue plastic bags over my shoes, but panicked a little when asked to take off my superhero tie – would this strip me of my special powers? – even though one of the surgeons said they liked them too. Anyway, I lied on the bed and shuffled up. It was like a CT scan combined with that bed that Goldfinger tries to get James Bond with via a laser:

Now, after all the anticipation and fear, the procedure was actually a little worse than I expected. I had cut short a viewing of one of the many youtube clips available so the lady’s explanation was all I had, plus the prediciton of the smell of hamburgers. The ’slight odour of ultra violet light’ was one of the worse aspects of those few minutes I spent in the theatre. She had mentioned this, and likened it to ‘when you catch hair in a hairdryer’ but it was worse than that, maybe just because my sense were compensated for the lack of vision.

Though I did see the dancing red and green lights which moved in sync with the crackling lasers, and I saw the pressure ring moving away, and the wash rinsing away the blur…. My relief was immense as the ceiling lights slowly became apparent. I instantly recalled the images by Mark Wallinger I had photocopied only a few hours earlier.

 Only in my case, it had been reversed.

I sat upright, dizzy and unable to make much out. The surgeon tried to show me what they had recorded but I couldn’t see anything on the screen of his camcorder.

I was then helped up and guided to a darkened room, where I lied back and thought of England, playing the land of my forefathers later that evening. I wanted to text loved ones and tell them it was ok, I could see.

But I couldn’t, and spent five minutes trying to turn my phone on, desperately trying to work out how the battery went in.

 Finally, I managed it. Now I was ready to get up and enter the outside world.

Yesterday I had sight correction surgery.

I’m recovering well but not yet up to a full recount of the tale of what happened.

However, the operation had to be carried out in Chester due to malfunctioning air conditioning at the Liverpool clinic. The company were kind enough to order me a taxi to get there, and who should be driving it but an ex Everton player, on the far right of the back row of the 1994-5 team photo:

I was able to watch the majority of the USA game in the waiting room, whilst also chatting to a guy called Greg. Remember those phone calls we were getting for someone called Greg? Didn’t happen for a month, until late last night, an African woman rang for him just a few hours after my surgery and a conversation with said Greg about diving for oil in Nigeria.

Eventually I was prepped and readied for the procedure, which was to be done by a team that included a guy called Chris who admitted he is “well into Superheroes” when he saw my tie.

I was extremely nervous, anticipating this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-fckxsFSVMU&feature=related

Or even this:

But the true events were even more surreal…