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.








