The thing that dare not speak its name

After some earache in the deif lug this week and lots of pacing around poking my finger in the other ear every time a burglar alarm goes off to demonstrate to the spouse that my hearing’s definitely not been like this all my life, I decided to make an appointment with the GP to share my conviction that there’s been a terrible mistake and I’ve had an ear infection all along. A doctorly look in the lug proved beyond reasonable doubt that, contrary to my self diagnosis, there’s absolutely nothing about to explode out of my eustachian tube. Not even slightly. The bowling club burglar alarm will never wake me at 2am again. That’s that. My pathetic in-denial but…buts elicited a fleeting look of sympathy, but with the elapsed consultation time now getting dangerously close to about 5 mins, Dr Foster was needing to wrap things up.

“Did Mr Bradford say anything about…er…um…er…about…er…”

I was intrigued about what would happen if I just sat there and allowed the sentence to run its course, but I could stand it no longer

” …you mean hearing aids?” I said taking a chance. “Sectioning”, “euthanasia”, “donating your acoustic nerve to medical science” were all possibilities but unlikely, since Dr Foster had only known me for five and a half minutes.

“Yes” said Dr Foster, relieved not to be the one to have to say the words to one so obviously touchy.

“He thinks they’ll be no use but worth a try, I’ve got an appointment in January”

“Good. Good. That’s good.”

And with that, I was on my way.

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