My eyes don’t work any more. When I dial a number on my mobile, it’s only
through sheer blind luck that I get through to the right person. And as for
texts – forget it. Then there’s the bothersome business of going out to eat.
Most restaurants provide mood lighting, which is wonderful if you are dining
with a moose but not so wonderful if – as is normal – the menu is printed in
the sort of typeface that’s usually seen on microdots. Mostly, I just point
and hope that I’ve managed to miss the marzipan pie with grated butter beans.
Of course, I should go to the opticians but I’m afraid this isn’t possible
because, before giving me a pair of spectacles, they will look into my eyes
with machinery . . . and here we hit on the problem.
I’m not a squeamish man. I am never unduly troubled by scenes on the news that
the BBC’s editorial policy unit has deemed worthy of a warning about
“graphic violence and bloodshed”. I can kill a chicken. I could amputate a
gangrenous leg. I can even graze the internet and not be constantly fearful
that I’m going to be so revolted by something that pops onto the screen that
I’ll vomit into the keyboard.
But eyes? No. I can’t even think about them without going queasy. When my
daughter needed an operation to correct a squint, the doctor explained the
procedure to me, after which I had to be brought round with smelling salts.
I have to fast-forward “that bit” in Kill Bill 2, and I have never once used
eyedrops. It would be impossible.
As a result of all this, I buy my reading glasses from the only shops I ever
visit, which are in airport departure lounges. This is not easy because the
instructions you have to follow before deciding what sort of lens you need
are printed in a typeface smaller than most bacteria.
Consequently, I usually end up with a pair of specs that require me to
position a book six seats in front of where I’m sitting on the plane. Or so
close to my face that it actually squashes my nose.
And here’s the really bad bit. The glasses you buy over the counter are a big
joke – one that’s being played by the Chinese, I expect. They are held
together with nuts and bolts so small that when they come undone – and they
do, all the time – you need a carbon nanotube to do them up again. And of
course you don’t have a carbon nanotube with you because you’re on a plane,
and such things – along with shampoo and tennis rackets – aren’t allowed on
planes. What’s more, you don’t even have your reading glasses because
they’re in four pieces on your left knee.
I wouldn’t mind, but even if you are not squeamish about eyes, and you make
regular trips to the opticians and have a pair of lenses that are perfectly
suited to your particular condition, you will look like an ocean-going idiot.
Everyone chooses their specs to make a statement – to make them look
interesting or sexy or wise – whereas in fact all spectacles do is tell the
world that your body doesn’t work properly. Choosing purple frames merely
highlights that fact. It’s like being diagnosed with erectile dysfunction
and then buying trousers that have no fly.
So maybe the only solution is that we do without glasses and spend the rest of
our lives with a headache from the strain, eating marzipan and butter beans.
Or that the worlds of industry and catering accept that half of their
customers struggle with anything smaller than 72-point bold type, and that
they reprint their instructions and menus to suit.
This brings me nicely to the dashboard of the new Citroën C5. My demonstrator
had a 7in 16:9 television screen with a built-in GSM telephone, a radio, a
CD player, iPod connectivity, a 10GB hard drive to store music and GPS
navigation with traffic alerts and a bird’s-eye-view map.
In addition, there was an electronic parking brake (complete with a system
that prevents the car rolling back on hill starts), cruise control and an
adjustable speed limiter. And then, in no particular order, I had parking
sensors, electrically adjusted seats that vibrate if you stray out of your
lane, directional headlamps, switchable suspension, ride-height adjustment,
traction control, a dual-zone air-conditioning system, hazard warning lights
that come on when you brake hard, an electronic stability program, an
electrochrome rear-view mirror, rain-sensing wipers, dark-sensing headlamps,
a trip computer, a tyre-pressure monitor . . .
This car made a Mercedes S-class look like the back end of a Cornish cave, and
while that’s wonderful, unfortunately all of these things have to be
operated with buttons that are mostly the size of pinheads because that’s
the only way they can get them all in. It is therefore impossible to find
them and even more impossible to read what any of them do, at least not
without reaching for your reading glasses, which is tricky when you’re on
the move.
Honestly, in a whole week I was unable to activate the sat nav, and any
attempt to set the cruise control usually resulted in Ken Bruce being
replaced by traction control. To operate the horn you ideally need a head
torch and a cocktail stick.
However, I could clearly see that the new C5 was a very handsome car. It sits
among other four-door saloons – from BMW, Audi, Ford, Honda and so on –
looking much like Angelina Jolie would while sitting in a Wakefield bus
queue.
What’s more, we are told it’s no longer built by uninterested Algerians in a
factory made from straw, and that as a result it is somehow German.
Obviously there’s no way of knowing at this stage whether any of this is
true, but I doubt that it is. The French have never been able to make a car
that lasts, any more than the Germans have been able to make a soufflé.
What is certain is that the C5 is more comfortable than any German rival. My
test car had hydropneumatic suspension, which really does isolate you from
the pain of a badly made road. It also means it handles like a blancmange,
although to get round that problem you can reach for the “sport” button –
which turns on the CD player.
I liked driving this car. I liked looking at it. I liked the sheer surprise of
pressing a button and then trying to work out what I’d done. There’s one
obstacle, however, that I’d have to jump before I signed on the dotted line.
In the past few years Citroën has struggled to make its products popular in
Britain. Or indeed anywhere where people walk on their back legs. So, to get
round that, it’s indulged in a business strategy that most experts would
call “a bit daft”.
First, it has offered its cars at enticingly low prices and then garnished
them with cashbacks, 0% finance and the promise of a Thai massage for
everyone buying one before the end of May. I sometimes get the impression
there are so many incentives on a Citroën C3, for example, that if you buy
one the dealer will give you £40. And some of his daughters.
Of course, this policy doesn’t really work for you because if you can buy a
Citroën new for minus £40, what’s it going to be worth when you want to
sell? And obviously it doesn’t work for Citroën either, but that hasn’t
stopped the company. In about five minutes I found a Citroën dealer willing
to offer me a new C5 with well over a thousand quid knocked off its list
price.
Of course there was probably some detailed small print attached to the offer.
But, needless to say, I couldn’t have read it.
Vital statistics
Model Citroën C5 2.7 HDi V6 Exclusive
Engine 2720cc, six cylinders
Power 208bhp @ 4000rpm
Torque 325 lb ft @ 1900rpm
Transmission Six-speed automatic
Fuel 33.6mpg (combined cycle)
CO2 223g/km
Acceleration 0-62mph: 9.6sec
Top speed 139mph
Price £24,395
Road tax band F (£210 for 12 months)
On sale Now
Verdict Should play harder to get
