I’ve been to the ophthalmologist, and my eye is much improved.

It was a very 21st-century experience. A very slick office in Kitchener, full of junior staff to put dilating drops in my eyes and run the full battery of preliminary examinations with all the mysterious machinery that did not exist before 2010. Then a slender young Arab-looking man in sweatpants and yellow Crocs— the ophthalmologist himself — peered into the eye with a slit lamp, twiddled with his computer, and then matter-of-factly informed me of the 1/3,000 odds on anything going wrong with the proposed laser treatment, except for me because I have had a torn retina, so there’s that — are we having fun yet?

Among his remarks, he reminded me (as if I could forget) that I was a whisker away from losing my driving licence.

I weighed up the threat and risks and said, “Let’s do it.”

The treatment? Right there and then, he sat me down in front of yet another science-fiction machine, told me to look at his right ear, and laser-zapped many tiny holes in the veil of scar tissue that has grown over the implant lens. The effect was immediate — everything bright and clear again.

I drove myself home to Stratford.

But there’s a big, fat caveat: this treatment is a one-time deal, and the scar tissue will eventually grow back. So I have a reprieve. Definitely time to reorganize my life.