[1] The Episode

I am trying to cross Belgrave Road in Leicester. It is one of those winter afternoons when the fawn-grey sky gives way to a sodium-lit orange and purplish mush at 3pm. A cold rain blows painfully into my face. If I were Scottish I'd say it was "dreach".

The wet road is a confusion of diffused lights, some moving more than others. I have to break the habits of a lifetime and remind myself to slow down and wait. Gone are the days when I'd be able to run for it. The little green man appears and I can cross safely (in little green men we trust). So I cross. Now the other half of the road. Wait, wait, wait, little green man. I cross. Then I find that there is a third lot of road to cross that I hadn't been aware of before. Repeat performance, and I am finally on a pavement again.

The pavement is alarmingly narrow at this point and it has a population of objects that could be human beings, dustbins, no-parking signs, and those pools of light that are constantly on the change. Shuffling along one step at a time is awkward, as the slightest bit of unusual camber or puddle could be some sort of hazard. Is this bit of kerb somewhere where traffic could make a sudden turn or is it just a break in the pavement? If in doubt I hold back, and wait to see if I can pick up any clues from the strange moving entities around me. I recognise one of them as a human being and move cautiously to one side so as not to collide with something else, and damn me if they don't dodge in the same direction! Is it my personal magnetism at work? I wish I had a tenner for every time that that one happened.

After negotiating junction boxes, oddly precipitous wheelchair ramps (with special surface to break your ankles), jack-knifing paving stones (instant showers) and blindingly meaningless neon-lit entrances to goodness knows what, I arrive at my destination on Loughborough Road 40 minutes later. On a clear day, this would have taken 10 minutes maximum.

My destination is the doctor's surgery. "Hmm, your blood pressure's up a bit," he mutters. I tell him why.

The reason for this appointment, however, was to follow up a very busy session with the eye consultant. All I knew was that I was suddenly eligible for registration as blind, rather then partially sighted. I didn't know what I'd got or what to expect, but I did have a half-price TV licence.

"Macular degeneration," my G.P. recited from the notes. That's all he said, or maybe that's all I heard. "Charming!" was my involuntary reaction. I'd heard of this condition where people lose their central vision, but I had no idea what it was going to mean for me. The doctor tells me there's no way of telling whether the condition will worsen or not, or at what point it will stop. I still don't know which of the many varieties of M.D. I have - could it be the dreaded Wet Macular Degeneration (WMD!).

"I'll cross you over the road to Enlightenment whether you want to go or not!"

That's the end, or maybe it's just the beginning. . .