The last time I went for an eye examination was just before leaving England. That was more than four years ago, when I bought a batch of contact lenses, the last pair of which I am still using. For fourteen years from 1990 to 2003 the eye examinations came regularly once a year, together with a new pair of lenses. Each and every time a bulky apparatus was used to project sharp light through my pupils. The intrusive examination was a bit of a bother, but I always cherished seeing the capillaries in my eyes when the light hit my retinas. For a second or two, I could see them perfectly clearly. And in bright color. But the last year or so I can see them late at night, usually when I am sitting next to a lamp above my dining table, which I use for reading. The sight of the capillaries thrills me ever anew. The tiny rivers of blood offer a recurrent, if increasingly superfluous, proof of my origins.