In recent months it has become apparent that book publishers, in an effort perhaps to cram more words on the page and thus save money, have been using smaller type. As a result, I find myself leaning closer and closer to the bedside lamp, hanging out over the side of the bed clutching my book with one hand and the edge of the mattress with the other in a vain attempt to gain sufficient illumination.

Occasionally, I lean to far and slide to the floor, feet kicking furiously as they attempt to disentangle themselves from the sheets; the lamp, glass of water, book, large clumsy male person and bedclothes all on one glorious tangle on the floor. The resultant banging, crashing and grunting disturbs the evening still. However, as the couple next door has taken to breaking the morning still with moans and gasps as they writhe in what can only be a paroxysm of pleasure, my own crashing and banging causes me to feel little guilt.

There also seems to be a problem with my mobile phone, the numbers blurring on the screen as I punch them into the keypad. As a result, I've rung a number of new acquaintances recently, nasal accented females mostly and none of whom seem inclined to believe that I had dialled a wrong number and was not practising some weird form of sexual harassment when I asked to speak to my mother.

It was when I began having trouble reading the vintages printed on the wine labels in my local bottle shop that I was forced to concede that just possibly the reading glasses I had bought two years ago needed upgrading.

For reasons of vanity, I'd postponed getting glasses for as long as was possible, succumbing about eight years ago and choosing a set of frames which made me look like an owl. I had thought that the look which would best suit me would be that which suggested scholarship and intellectual acuity. Had I been more honest, I would have selected a pair that suggested self-delusion.

The optometrist I attended failed to warn me that the drops used in the eye test would affect my sight and I recall driving home with double vision. I tried putting a hand over one eye but apparently this only works after you have consumed a large quantity of indifferent wine and are lying on the bed trying to focus on the ceiling.

I've a friend who has the eyesight of a rock, but only wears glasses when driving. Accordingly, she goes through life engaging total strangers in meaningful conversations and ignoring people she has known for decades. "They make me look too serious," she moans, saying good morning to a telegraph post and unaware that she is wearing shoes of different colours.

I have lost, by the most recent assessment, four pairs of glasses and have only gained one. How I came by this pair remains a mystery. I went out one night, returned home, went to bed, arose the next day and went to read the morning paper. I put on the glasses and suddenly felt as if my eyeballs were being sucked from my skull. The world was a tumbled blur. I stumbled through the house announcing to all that I was suffering a seizure until it was pointed out to me that I was wearing someone else's glasses. I never found out to whom they belonged or how I came by them.

It was when I began having difficulty reading the use-by date on milk cartons and had begun to obsessively clean my glasses lenses in the forlorn hope that rubbing them furiously on my shirt tail would somehow improve my vision, that I succumbed to reality and went in search of an optometrist. "Find a pair under $160 and they're free," said the advertising spiel. If it had read "Find a pair under $160 that doesn't make you look like an idiot and we'll pay out your home loan" I'd still have a mortgage.

Strange, is it not, that while people in optometrists' advertisements look chic, intelligent and desirable, the person looking at you in the mirror appears myopic and dorky. And that people in liquor advertisements appear cool, clean cut and bright eyed, while those you encounter in bars are ugly, slobbering and reeking of body odour.

I spent 40 minutes draping and undraping my nose with glasses and peering into mirrors before settling reluctantly on a pair which - surprise, surprise - cost more than $160 and were, therefore, not free.