As a child, I had a pronounced squint. Attempts at curing it by taping over one lens on my National Health Service spectacles to 'train the lazy eye' failed. So, at the age of eight, I was directed to the Moorfields Eye Hospital for an operation. As a procedures go, it was relatively easy, something that I could understand; the surgeon would cut away some muscle tissue in the corner of my left eye which was pulling it inward.
To get to Moorfields, we took the Underground – a wonderful experience for me. The Piccadilly Line from Boston Manor, flashing by the stations between Acton Town and Hammersmith, then diving underground after Baron's Court. The atmosphere of the tube train was exciting and unforgettable. I must have made the journey two or three times, visiting the hospital before the operation, the operation itself – and then maybe for a check-up later.
Though I have taken many tube train journeys since, those first ones that still stick with me, the long dark tunnel, the noise, the cables running alongside the track, the tiled stations, the atmosphere of times long past. [Incidentally, the Piccadilly Line opened in December 1906, so the stations then were only a little older in early 1966 than my memories of the qualia I experienced at that time are today.] Moorfields Eye Hospital was opened in 1899, of a similar vintage to the Piccadilly Line.
The children's ward was large; my bed was by one of the large windows. Tiled from floor to ceiling with Edwardian nursery-rhyme illustrations – Little Bo Peep, Little Jack Horner, Little Miss Muffett, Little Boy Blue – I felt I was too grown-up for such a babyish place. In the bed next to mine was a girl called Fiona, the first time I'd ever encountered a girl with such a posh name. My parents bought me a Corgi Toys Chrysler Imperial convertible, and Profile Publications on the Boeing B-29 Superfortress and Messerschmitt Me-262 jet fighter.
Before the operation, I had changed into my Paisley-patterned Marks & Spencers Winceyette pyjamas (specially washed and ironed for the occasion by my mother) and a nurse gave me something to make me go to sleep. I remember that pill having a strange effect on me; I became hyperactive, bouncing manically around my bed. Then, quickly, I lost consciousness.
When I awoke, my left eye was patched up; the next morning the patch was removed, the surgeon looked at my eye, made me follow his pencil with my gaze, and judged the operation a success. My mother said she knew it would be, because my surgeon had shiny shoes – the mark of a fastidious character.
One side-effect of losing my squint (apart from no longer having to wear glasses) was that my eyes could now focus to infinity. Before, when in Elthorne Park, I couldn't see its westernmost fringes with any clarity; I thought the park stretched out all the way to America. Now being able to resolve detail at at a distance, I could see where the park ended. I could see the canal and the farm beyond, and part of the magic of childhood had vanished.
This time last year:
A date for the history books
This time three years ago:
WinterCity/SummerCountry
This time four years ago:
Homage to Americana
This time five years ago:
This land is my land
Classic British cars for British week
This time 13 years ago:
Cara al Sol - a short story
This time 14 years ago:
Pumping out the floodwater
This time 15 years ago:
To Góra Kalwaria and beyond
This time 16 years ago:
Developments in Warsaw's exurbs
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