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Don't pity the blind. My life's richer than ever since I lost my sight
A week ago, and in a private act of worship in the cramped cave beneath the Church Of The Nativity in Bethlehem, I reached gently to touch the silver star marking the purported spot at which the Christ Child was born.
In doing so, I succeeded only in goosing the ample behind of an aged nun who was prostrate in religious reverie. One has to laugh.
You see, blindness is full of incident, colour and absurdity - and it can enrich rather than diminish life in ways most people cannot imagine.
Challenges: James Jackson has been gradually going blind since childhood
In a Stratford-upon-Avon hotel, I cursed inwardly at the excess garnish placed in my glass of orange juice, until I heard a waiter murmur quietly in my ear: 'That's the vase for the rose, sir.'
In a London supermarket, a woman asked if I wanted to buy oranges. I replied that, in fact, I was looking for apples.
'But you love oranges,' she retorted. Politely, I reaffirmed my commitment to apples.
'What about bananas?' she asked. No, just apples, I said. Our conversation lasted a further couple of minutes and alighted on the small matter of what kind of yoghurt I preferred.
At this juncture I realised with the cold sweat of mortification that instead of talking to me, she was actually conferring on her mobile phone with a boyfriend or husband and was paying no attention at all to my replies. It was the perfect parallel conversation; my very own Two Ronnies sketch.
Life is never humdrum when you can't see.
Blindness has become topical as the debate continues over Gordon Brown and the error-strewn letter of condolence he wrote to the mother of Jamie Janes, a young soldier killed in Afghanistan.
Many understandably feel sympathy for the Prime Minister over the fact his already poor eyesight seems to be deteriorating further.
They applaud him for taking the time, under such circumstances, to hand-write a letter to Mrs Janes. And they believe it deeply unfair that, out of this act of compassion, political capital appears to have been made by his critics.
For my part, I think Gordon Brown and his advisers should have known that in writing any letter of condolence you do not produce a hasty scrawl.
James said his blindness taught him that there was a clear benefit to having something to struggle and push against in life
However heartfelt, however difficult it is to write both physically and emotionally, and however busy your schedule, a letter like this is of such importance to the recipient that you read it and re-read, you check and check again.
You certainly don't misspell the name of the person you are sending it to, as Gordon Brown did. It was a mistake. Matter closed.
And that, I think, is what everyone would have said in years gone by. The trouble is that today we live in a victim culture, a post-Diana world where emotional incontinence and pity obscure common sense.
The last thing, I imagine, that Gordon Brown wants is to be pitied. Yet his spin doctors understand that fading eyesight is just the thing to garner pity and support. And in their desperation to boost the Prime Minister's floundering image, they are in danger of committing the terrible mistake of playing on his perceived disability.
As someone who sees considerably less than Gordon Brown, I can say with some authority that blindness is not worthy of pity. In fact, I'd be mortified if it was used as an excuse for any of my failings.
My blindness has taught me that there is a clear benefit to having something to struggle and push against in life. I have discovered the advantage of dealing with a condition that puts imagined and petty problems in perspective.
I have enjoyed the privilege of experiencing every day the quiet decency of the British public who unfailingly offer a helping hand. And I have laughed too many times to count over the ludicrous situations that my blindness has led me into.
My eye condition is retinitis pigmentosa, a congenital disease that progressively devours the cells of the retina and closes down the vision field.
Blindness has become topical as the debate continues over Gordon Brown who has poor eyesight
When I was 12, I was told I would be completely blind by 19. It has taken a lot longer than that - it's taken until now, and I'm in my 40s.
The decline has been gradual but relentless, as it has for my twin brother, who suffers from the same condition. I have never been able to see anything at all in the dark. I have never seen a star. I first started having to use a white stick in the evenings at university.
But because I knew I was going blind, I threw myself into my studies, gained several university degrees, was called to the Bar and built a career advising corporations and government departments of the political and security implications of their overseas involvements.
Slowly, inexorably, the blindness marched on. I once described it to a journalist as the longest goodbye in history. But I was wrong.
True, I could no longer see my face in the mirror when I shaved.
True, I could no longer see the smile of a pretty girl or the expressions of friends around a dinner table. But there is light at the end of that enclosing and narrowing tunnel.
The nuance of situations I find myself in, the vibe, the warmth, the kindness, the laughter. All these seem to have grown. As for my career, I sidestepped into historical thrillerwriting when I realised I needed to mould a different and sightless future.
A leap of faith such as this is easier when you are accustomed to stepping into the unknown. And when I achieved bestseller status, with my book Pilgrim about the children's crusade of 1212, it confirmed the wisdom of that move.
I would never have instigated it had I not lost my eyesight. I would never have worked with movie-maker Guy Ritchie on a screenplay (nor, incidentally, mistaken his then-wife Madonna for a secretary).
I would never have been exposed to so great a variety of screenwriters, artists, musicians, directors and creative types had I not refocused on a new career. Thank you, retinitis pigmentosa.
'Hell . . . Blind and crippled. You sure are in a world of hurt' - so drawled my American neighbour as he viewed me climbing the steps on crutches after I'd misjudged a step when getting off a ship in Egypt and suffered a compound fracture.
It was certainly challenging. Yet for years I have competed with my twin brother, Julian, in the disaster department.
We have always compared notes on the trips and pitfalls of everyday life. I once fell into a huge wire- cage dustbin, while he disappeared down an open manhole.
He locked himself naked outside his hotel room believing he was entering a bathroom, whereas I have mistakenly sat on laps in the smartest of restaurants, dug my coffee spoon into cigar-boxes believing them to contain sugar, lodged my white cane hard against cushions that turned out to be fat American tourists, and found myself swaying high above a building site on a plank of wood after taking a wrong turn across a road. Yet I would change little.
James worked with movie-maker Guy Ritchie on a screenplay and mistook his then-wife Madonna for a secretary
On the day that I fell into the huge litter bin in a London park, there was blood everywhere after my face was badly cut on the wire mesh of the bin. A dogwalker threatened to tie me up with his dog leads if I did not wait for an ambulance.
The following day, and looking somewhat like the Elephant Man, I attended a conference at which several senior Army officers approached and inquired whether I had been mugged.
I had to confess that while I would love to have single-handedly fought off a gang of hammer-wielding crack heads, I had actually fallen in a bin and was sober at the time. They appeared unimpressed.
Years earlier, I had jokingly tried to pass off my latest facial injuries as the consequence of a street robbery.
A colleague drily observed the mugger must have beaten me with a security gate, for the lattice-patterning of the steel was still imprinted on my face. The transition from poorly sighted to unsighted was not necessarily smooth.
To be blind and yet to be content is viewed by some with suspicion. They cannot quite believe it. Surely it is a blight and burden. No, it is life.
Happiness is about the inner self, about accepting fate, about self-knowledge, self-belief and a touch of faith. Friends and family are part of it too. The immortal comedienne Joyce Grenfell summed things up with the maxim: 'Live for the minute and thank God you're in it.' Not a bad approach.
Life involves both pain and joy. That is the common lot of humanity. No one escapes the pain and nor should they. But for any poor man, there is someone poorer. For every person with a disability, there is someone suffering worse.
Disability can elevate or diminish, inspire or deprive, uplift or destroy. That is up to the individual. Pity is ridiculous.
Gordon Brown's eyesight should not be an issue. He should never be vilified for having one blind eye and another that seems to be faltering.
He should, however, be condemned in my mind for incompetence, for letting down our Armed Forces, for racking up the largest national debt in British history and for being a pretty lousy Prime Minister.
After all, as a writer I do not expect a kinder book review merely on the basis my sight has failed.
I have all manner of technological help for my blindness. I sit here surrounded by electronic gizmos and gadgets, scanners and voice-recognition software.
It is a comfortable and blessed existence and I get to travel the world on research trips accompanied by teams of friends acting as my eyes, ears, gofers, translators, map-readers and occasionally even as pilots.
Within a couple of years, any residual sight I still have - the last one or two per cent - is likely to go. Although this will be testing, I will be fine.
The most dangerous thing I have ever done is to tumble into the gap between a train and platform or march unaware towards oncoming traffic on a busy main road.
Real courage, genuine risk, involves facing down an armed enemy, patrolling an area infested with roadside bombs, persevering as friends and comrades are killed or injured all around.
Against the self-sacrifice and devotion to duty of our military, blindness is nothing and our government appears inadequate and absurd. We owe our troops in Afghanistan more, certainly far more than a cursory nod to the Cenotaph.
You will not find me raging or even weeping at the dying of the light. Blindness has enriched my life. For sure, I have cracked my head and broken my bones, and have dealt with the irritation of trying to put toothpaste on a toothbrush and missing by a mile.
Some things are irksome. Yet blindness has granted me clarity and independence of thought.
Blindness has made me more compassionate and aware and grateful for the small things. Blindness has given me deeper insight in place of sight. It should never be used as an excuse.
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Andreas Gursky, Chicago Board of Trade II, 1999, C-print mounted to plexiglass in artist's frame 73 x 95 inches
The Tetons and the Snake River (1942)
