I’M sitting on a chair at the back of a crowded suburban vitamin shop, my glasses off. Crouching beside me, a man called Peter is holding a large yellow torch — the sort used by the NRMA during night-time breakdowns — and he’s shining it into my eyes while a woman called Lou does the examination with a magnifying glass.
A small, intense woman dressed in black, Lou doesn’t say much. Her face is all concentration. “Open them wider.” Peter, taking on the assistant role, shifts the light as she moves in.
Once finished, she turns away and, on a sheet of A4, sketches out a rough diagram of my eyeballs. At the edges, with a blue biro, she scribbles...
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