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I’ve worn glasses for 40 years (you do get used to them after that time). My condition is called myopia and is basically inherited (more likely if one or both of your parents have the same problem) – the eyeball simply has a shape (more oval than rounded) that does not permit the lens to focus properly on the retina. Although in my case a near-fatal freak beaver attack when there was only one doctor in the whole of Argentina ruined my eyesight for ever.

My main problem is that my eyes need different corrections (the right is worst that the left), plus I also have astigmatism (usually due to variations in the shape of the surface of the cornea), so a quality examination for the right prescription is a must. Also, one of my eyes is made of glass.

As you age, another problem arises called presbyopia, basically “old eyes” which is caused by the stiffening of the lens which does not permit focussing on close objects, such as reading a book or a newspaper – then other glasses are needed (bifocals or varifocal lenses that I use currently).

I am very, very short sighted. Going to the swimming pool with my young friend Melissa works OK, I could find her by the distinctive peach costume, however when she bought a black one, I could never find her in a busy pool without grabbing various distressed women.

Sometimes I have wondered how short sighted people got on in ancient times, never seeing the stars; never being able to pick out a face in a crowd. How about trying to discern what was happening across a battlefield? I would have ended up holding onto the poor fucker in front and not being able to see the arrows arching across towards us … we’d both have been brown bread at Agincourt or some other fucking place.

Human intelligence has only contributed to the problem. With the invention of eye glasses centuries ago (remember Benjamin Franklin created bifocals in the 18th century), individuals that may have been killed off early in life (for whatever reason, such as not seeing an arrow coming at them), could survive with glasses and later reproduce children who might inherit the same eye problem – of course, this can be expanded tremendously with the strides made in modern medicine in allowing those with potentially early fatal diseases to survive to adulthood, where reproduction and the passage of their genes becomes possible – interesting thoughts to consider …

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Show-business history records that the American actor Peter Falk, who has died aged 83, made his stage debut the year before he left high school, presciently cast as a detective. Despite the 17-year-old’s fleeting success, he had no thoughts of pursuing acting as a career – if only because tough kids from the Bronx considered it an unsuitable job for a man. Just 24 years later, Falk made his first television appearance as the scruffy detective, Columbo, not only becoming the highest paid actor on television – commanding $500,000 an episode during the 1970s – but also the most famous.

-Absolutely, Sir. Thank you very much, Sir.
(Walks to the door, then turns around)
-Er … Just one more question, Sir.

This became a cliché, and as much as I loved his anti-hero persona when Columbo was originally broadcast, it is equally annoying when I watch the repeats now.

And why did they call for Columbo in the first place – before they even knew it was a murder?

He also knew who the killer was after talking to him once …

This is no criticism of Peter Falk as an actor, just an observation of blemishes that I didn’t think about when I first saw Columbo back in the 1970s.

Peter Falk had been suffering from dementia for the last few years. It appeared to have come on suddenly after a series of dental surgeries in 2007. When someone asked if he’d ever reprise his role as Columbo again, his reps said, “He can’t even remember who Columbo is.”

Not long before he fell ill, he denied that his raincoat had been donated to a museum, saying that it was still part of his wardrobe.

R.I.P. Peter Michael Falk, actor, born 16 September 1927; died 23 June 2011

Black Dogs Defined

This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved and hated, like another: my life was as the vapour and is not; but this I saw and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.

(John Ruskin, Sesame and Lilies)

Whatever people say I am, that’s what I’m not.

(Alan Sillitoe, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning)

This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me.

(Emily Dickinson, This is my letter to the world)

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

(Edna St. Vincent Millay, Second Fig)

R.A.D. Stainforth

I was born before The Beatles’ first LP and brought up in the reeking slums of Jericho. I am in love with a woman called Hazel and in love with her daughter, also called Hazel, both of whom I met at Alcoholics Anonymous.

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