Safe in the arms of the NHS part 6: The Left Ear, The Right Ear and The Final Frontier

Went for the routine return visit to the ENT clinic the other day to see what’s happening in the lugholes six months on from the revelation that there is actually a reason why I don’t know the correct words to any songs I’ve ever heard.

It was very busy in the waiting room. Looking round for a seat, I noticed that there had clearly been an outbreak of black eyes and stitched noses on the southside of Glasgow over the weekend, so I was delighted to see that the enjoyably low-budget daytime antiques show ‘Real Deal’ was on the telly for a bit of light relief. Moreover, I was in pole position to see the subtitles with the all-important bidding prices, because everyone else had avoided the empty chair beside the wee old man who was singing away to himself to the accompaniment of a loudly whistling hearing aid. I squeezed in beside him, quickly noting how good my high frequency hearing is, and soon became immersed in the on-screen auction action.

When I was called to the audiometry booth over an hour later, I was so pumped up with all the antiques bidding activity that I clicked my way through the test in record time and was back in the waiting room in under five minutes. Then it was time to see Mr Bradford. The right side of my face started twitching uncontrollably the minute my name was called.

“Good news,” said Mr Bradford, probably wondering why I was winking at him. “There has been no significant change, so I suggest we see you again in…ummm…two years.  How does that sound?”

“Great,” I replied, heaving a large internal sigh of relief.

“Thank you and Good Afternoon, Mrs Dancer”, said Mr Bradford, seamlessly whipping out his Dictaphone and gesturing to the door, whilst handing me an official piece of orange paper with my name and a ‘2’ written on it.

I exited the room none the wiser about what to expect in future, but feeling rather lucky to be waving bye-bye to the delights of the ENT clinic until June 2012.

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