Safe in the arms of the NHS part 5: Farewell Yoda

I returned to Clinic O at the end of last week, for another bit of hearing aid re-jigging. I broke  into an uncontrollable sweat in the waiting room as a result of the overly brisk walk caused by being distracted by The Case of the Missing Contact Lenses at the breakfast table, plus severe embarrassment at being outed as the deranged author of the Cookie Bite Chronicles.

The knowing “Ah, yes… Mrs Dancer…” when I arrived at reception seemed to confirm my worst fears and I wished that the internet had never been invented. I took a seat and stripped off my outer layers of clothing to prevent my face catching fire. My disrobing movements were watched with curiosity by the other inhabitants of the waiting room who were cosily wrapped up in the full winter attire needed for a typical Scottish spring day. I studiously avoided their gaze and assumed a semi-foetal position with my back to the hearing aid clinic in the hope that I might appear less conspicuous, or preferably disappear altogether.

I fidgeted nervously as I awaited my summons, and just as I had practically unpicked all the stitching on my jacket, John called me in. He was very nice as always and I shrank another few inches on the walk along the corridor. The Siemens reps were there as promised, to help with troubleshooting, and they must have wondered where the sweating hunchback had appeared from as I sloped into the room. After a condensed description of the story so far, it was decided to start from scratch with another Real Ear Measurement. There followed the usual array of sci-fi sounds accompanied by dynamic computer graphs and, of course, as a graphic designer I like a nice graph, especially if it’s moving. The on-screen visual feast happily distracted me for a moment, temporarily disengaging the Inner Torment area of my brain. Then came the moment of truth.

“How do our voices sound?”

“Fine” I said, hoping nobody was going to break into a dalek impersonation to taunt me.

“What about your voice?”

“Fine, I sound like me.”

I noted with relief that Yoda and the elephant man had been successfully banished from my diction. A brief running of the tap and a bash on the table proved, as far as can be proved in a soundproofed room, that nothing seemed terrifyingly loud. Just in case the real world proves a little more problematic, I got a remote control so that I can turn the volume down if necessary. It’s going to come in very handy for meetings. I thanked everyone for their help, before inadvertently threading my arm through a pile of wires as I inserted it into the sleeve of my jacket, nearly sending the speaker setup crashing to the floor.

With that, I scuttled off down the corridor, making the fastest exit Clinic O has ever seen.

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3 Responses to “Safe in the arms of the NHS part 5: Farewell Yoda”


  1. 1 not quite like beethoven May 1, 2010 at 3:21 pm

    Glad things seem to go well at last. But — did I miss something? When have you been outed and to whom?

  2. 2 moiradancer May 2, 2010 at 9:59 am

    Nothing gets past not quite like beethoven. You didn’t miss anything, I glossed over the circumstances of my outing because, in true fashion, I idiotically did it myself on my previous visit to clinic O. On that occasion, I asked John the audiologist about Siemens’ offer of help

    https://thecookiebitechronicles.wordpress.com/2010/03/20/water-palaver/#comments

    and felt compelled to be truthful about where the offer had come from. I didn’t mention the blog name, but unfortunately when you have a surname as rare as mine coupled with cookie bite/ reverse slope hearing loss, it rather narrows down the possibilities…!

  3. 3 not quite like beethoven May 2, 2010 at 2:01 pm

    What a nice gesture of Siemens.
    It would surprise me, though, if your outing had any bad rather than positive consequences (after the initial feeling of embarassedness has passed).


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