…So, ears duly olive oiled, I reported to the lady with the otic hoover, but she didn’t do the sucking thing in the end. Instead, she poked a camera in my lug and showed me in beautiful Technicolor what the good one looked like and, by way of comparison, what the bad one looked like. Not too dissimilar as it turns out – and neither of them filled with wax. The problem, it would seem, lies behind the eardrum and will probably clear up by itself in a few days. As she did not have to get the vacuum out the audiologist decided to test my hearing. It proved to be excellent for a man of my age and the left ear was only marginally less acute than the right one due, almost certainly she said, to a small amount of congestion which no manner of mechanical siphoning could cure without also removing my ear drum. So she left it alone.
Meanwhile my hearing has, indeed, been slowly returning and within a day or two I should think that if any of you might decide to drop a pin, I will know exactly where to find you…
As the more perceptive amongst you (yes, Shaily, I do mean you) might have noticed, this post has actually appeared very fleetingly before, as I attempted to schedule it. It was immediately deleted and – I thought – rescheduled for a slightly later date. In fact it simply made its way into my drafts file where it loitered unheeded until I found it yesterday and decided that, despite the fact that all the events it chronicles happened some little time ago now, to let you have it anyway. I’m sorry…
Woke up this morning to find myself completely deaf in one ear: an unusual sensation, especially when coupled with the feeling that half of my head has been stuffed with cotton wool. My wife, who knows a thing or two about ears (particularly with regards to turning a deaf ‘un) says I need to have it syringed. I’m fairly uncomfortable with that notion because, having a brain the size of a peanut, I’m always afraid that it will be sucked out as well – I’ve seen the photo’s on Google of the kind of things that have been washed out of people’s ears. A brain would not surprise me.
This has happened to me before – I know because I have just re-read a post* from February ‘21, which actually brought back more memories of Covid restrictions than deafness – but it is about the same ear and the symptoms remain unchanged. As then, despite being totally deaf on that side (I say totally, but that is not quite true: I do have a constant whistling that I am pretty sure should only be audible to dogs) my overall hearing is ok because, in normal circumstances, for a man of my age it is very good and now, as then, I can still hear a pin drop, I’ve just no idea of where it’s falling. With one ear out of action, I appear to have totally lost the ability to tell where a sound is coming from (except if it is a list of my shortcomings, in which case it is almost certainly coming from my wife.)
I must be honest: whilst I would (obviously) hate for this deafness to persist, I am actually finding it much more difficult to cope with the sensation of having what feels like a full tub of peanut butter rammed into my ear canal than not hearing the junk mail ‘ping’ onto my phone constantly. And worse, it seems to be something that I cannot deflect myself from. Whatever I do by way of distraction, it fails: the fact that I have what feels like a tennis ball inside my head is constantly on my mind. The world surrounding me is on the other side of a cotton wool wall.
In conversation, the way around it is to look directly into the face of those who are speaking to me, but it does not feel natural. I am not conscious of doing this normally and it now makes me feel a little overly attentive. Peer into somebody’s face when they speak to you and you must focus either on their lips which is, at best, a slightly weird thing to do at close quarters, or you stare into their eyes, which can lead to all manner of misunderstanding. Nobody ever stares squarely into anybody’s eyes without ulterior motive and temporary deafness does not readily spring to the mind of somebody finding someone they thought they knew gazing into their baby blues for no easily conceivable reason. My current mode d’emploi is to dip my glance slightly – being careful if conversing with a member of the opposite gender that I do not find myself leering at breast-level appendages – and turn my good ear towards the source of the conversation. It’s awkward, but it’s working so far, although I doubt that it is going to be completely practical going forward, especially in group conversations: I fear I may dislocate my neck.
So, what do I do? Well, I fear that the only practical solution will be to follow my wife’s suggestion (similar to the ‘Ten Suggestions’ God chiselled on a stone for Moses) and get it sluiced. If it washes away my brain at the same time, well, I’m not entirely sure that anybody will notice – except for those who are wondering why I have stopped listening to their chests…
*My ear has trodden this path before, as told in my previous posts Lend Me Your Ears (March 2020) and Left Ear in Lockdown (Feb 2021) but it is to date a syringe virgin. I will, no doubt, give you the full details of its deflowering as soon as I have them…
It is my considered opinion that there are two kinds of people: those who read fast and those who actually read, and that those who read fast, whilst undoubtedly able to get the ‘drift’ are far less adept at judging nuance. It is to do, I think, with not leaving sufficient pause for full stop, comma and all other ancillary punctuation marks. I am a proficient, but slow reader. When I speed up to anything above my habitual lope, I cease to understand. I read what the characters say – word perfectly I would say – but I do not hear them. They talk, but do not speak. As I ratchet up my words per minute, books become politicians: I hear almost every word they say, understand about fifty percent and believe none at all.
If I’m honest, I am yet to be convinced of the desirability of reading quickly anyway. I know that there are lots of books out there waiting to be read and obviously you can’t get through them all without swallowing up the pages with the speed of a paper shredder, but a little perspective here, there are few good books and even fewer great books: most of what you read will be pants and there cannot be much justification in cramming more of that into the memory bank than you have to. The ability to read, for instance, Ulysses in a super-quick time (in my case, anything under 64 years) would be welcome, but would it make the whole overblown ragbag any more understandable, more readable, more entertaining? No, it would be none of the above, but it would, at least, be over quicker.
When I read a book that I like, I want to know what happens, but not too quickly. I don’t want to reach the end before I understand the beginning. I have more than enough problems in holding down the nuances of plot without ripping through them like Usain Bolt on a pogo stick. I realise that I should be able to retain details of carefully drafted characters, but on a single read I find that quite often I cannot. This is just me – it has always been so – but ‘scanning’ always makes it worse. Without taking the time to read each word and punctuation mark correctly, I find myself grasping the wrong end of the stick more often than a fishing lake carp. At least by reading at my own pace, I don’t have to keep going back to remind myself who people are and why they did whatever-it-was they did to whomever-it-was they did it.
I am definitely camped in the ‘slow’ school. I might not find out whodunit first, but when I do work it out I will, at least, remember how, why and possibly – providing I didn’t miss one of those dratted nuances back in chapter two – wherefore…
The ‘stream of consciousness’ post used to be my big thing; these days, just staying conscious is enough. I have shortened my posts, not because I have less to say, but because I have ever fewer who want to hear it and, in relation to the author, least said the better seems to be the way. The tales that I have to tell have become slightly less fanciful, whilst reality has tended to step up to the plate and fill in the gaps. My life, in general, is quieter than a stag weekend in a Trappist Monastery. If I’m honest, there is far less to me than meets the eye.
One of the most notable things about getting on is that you begin to expect far less from life, although you do tend to get even more grumpy when it doesn’t manage to live up to even your most meagre expectations. It becomes increasingly difficult to understand when dramatically lowered aspirations are not attained. The fact that I no longer have any confidence in my ability to become James Bond doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to do the audition. I might not look like Daniel Craig when I get out of the shower – to be honest, I’ve never really mastered that whole ‘tying a hand towel round the waist’ thing – but I’m pretty certain I could match him martini for martini given the chance, providing, of course, there was somewhere to wee nearby.
And that’s something in which I bet I could outdo Bond, Q, M and any other letter you might care to choose, on all occasions: location of the nearest Public Toilets. I could probably go on Mastermind. Take my age and factor in a dodgy prostate: there are some things you just have to know. Picture the scene: I am tied to a chair being force fed Timothy Taylor’s Landlord* through a funnel, with Blofeld’s voice grating in my ear, “Very well Mr McQueen, we are going to release you into the local shopping mall just as soon as your bladder has reached what we term ‘explosive proportions’”. I will smile up at him, even as his henchmen push down on my pelvis, because I know that in the dark recesses of the Marks & Spencer’s Food Hall, hidden away between a sandwich bar and a sushi stand, is a long-deserted public loo – decommissioned at the time of the last refit, but still usable once you have the knack of the dodgy flush. Take that Blofeld! The world is a safer place for Shopping Mall cleaners the world over.
But I digress. As I was saying, I no longer allow myself to be dragged away from the main thrust of these little fol-de-rols: short, sharp and to the point, that is what I have become. A social commentator, never deflected from the essential gist of the tale I have to tell.
This little blog is almost entirely about me: occasionally about what happens to me and, from time to time, what happens around me, but mostly me. I am central to its existence, but so are you and what I feel I need to ask myself right now is ‘What is it for?’ and the only real reason I can come up with is ‘entertainment’ or, more appositely ‘diversion’. A distraction. A slight alternative to the ‘must be done’. If I can take you away from what you don’t want to be doing for even a few seconds, it has to be good doesn’t it? If it makes you happy, then I am happy to do it. How altruistic is that? I doubt that I will ever need to give to charity again. I am a shoe-in for a berth at God’s right hand. I will not need to run a marathon, bathe in baked beans or visit every single ‘Red Lion’ in the country for Soup-in-a-basket and three pints of something that looks as though it might have been used to rinse a docker’s sock. I can feel the weight of the King’s sword upon my shoulder even now. If I can keep this going much longer, I sense beatification coming on.
Which leads, quite logically in my opinion, to the problem of the day: as the writer/subject of this little farrago and prospective saint, I find that it is becoming increasingly difficult to find anything entertaining to say about me. I feel that I have fully covered my nails, both hand and toe; my eyes, my ears and my ever more dodgy knees; my successes, my failures, my hopes, my fears, my peccadilloes and, more often than not, another load of my fears. Getting older can be the source of all manner of fear. You are forced to consider how you will die and when you will die. You will face up to all manner of calculations pertaining to the valid extension of your existence: a cream cake versus a glass of wine versus an extra day in the nursing home. It isn’t pretty. In the end, which is where it always is, we all want the same thing, but there can be no guarantees so the only option is simple: don’t consider your death, consider your life and how you’re going to live it (and bugger how long it might be). Sure, that earache might just be a brain tumour, that sneeze bubonic plague, that indigestion a fatal infarction, but equally they might be ear wax, hay fever or a reminder not to eat pickled onions at bedtime. What’s to be gained by looking on the dark side? What good did it do Darth Vadar? Laugh in the face of adversity, search for joy and plan for the best – if you’ve brought the kids up right, they’ll be perfectly capable of doing all the worrying for you. Enjoy whatever is left: after all, it’s not about me, it’s all about you…
Yup. Don’t worry, I do know what a grumpy old bastard these holiday outpourings have made me sound and it’s a shame because, although my wife would doubtless beg to differ, I don’t think I am. I absolutely do realise that I am lucky to be in the position to take a holiday now and then and I do, in reality, enjoy the company of almost everybody I meet – and that’s quite a lot: I must have one of those faces, people do like to talk to me – but that’s not easy to write about.
I envy those who manage to wring entertainment out of the absolute truth, because I cannot. I am prone to exaggeration almost as much I am prone to the flight of fancy. I have tried to see me as others do, but that’s not easy either, is it? I tend to like people who like me and not so much those who do not, so I’m not fully up to speed with their opinions, but they are, of course, fully entitled to hold them. They are almost certainly right.
Anyway, I deliberately didn’t ‘tidy up’ the holiday posts. I hope the irony is obvious, but if it’s not then there’s not really anybody else for me to blame and it’s certainly too late to do anything about it, so it is what it is and, anyway, it’s all back to normal tomorrow…
A little thin cloud cover today although still roasting hot, meaning that all around me people are burning in the shape of shorts and T-shirt. We have half a day to kill before being picked up for the journey home, so we are, ourselves, sitting on a sunbed, sucking on a beer (me) and something fluorescent orange with a cherry on top (wife) trying to decide whether we want to go home yet. On balance, I am a ‘no’ whilst my wife wants to get the washing on and whip around the house with the Hoover before the spiders get chance to settle. We both know though that whatever the preference, there is actually no escaping the return to the humdrum, so in preparation I check the bank account and start to worry about laying the new floor in the bathroom. I will be ‘back at work’ before the air stewards come around with the bin bags, and longing for the weekend before the ‘plane hits the ground…
There is a single empirical truth that overlays all holidays and that is that they must end. They would not be holidays otherwise. They would simply be life and everyone knows how tedious that can be. So holidays, in order to be a break from that, must end. It means that you can start looking forward towards the next one of course, but first, unfortunately, what you have to look forward to is the plane journey home.
I dare not begin to contemplate the horrors that accompany the start of such a journey, save to say that ‘Airport’ lies at the centre of Dante’s other nine circles – the very depths of Hell. It is of some consolation that for much of the time, no matter how bad things are, they could always get worse: you could be at the airport, where adults become tantrumming children and there is nobody about who can tell them to stop stamping their feet, jumping the queues or peeing on the lavatory floor. Fortunately there is neither sufficient paper and ink nor bandwidth to allow me to fully vent about the airport, but let me settle instead on what lies on the other side: the aeroplane.
You see, aeroplanes make no sense to me. It doesn’t matter how fast they go, I can find no logical reason to explain how they stay up in the air. They are huge, and I seem to remember from schoolboy physics, that gravity has a greater effect on larger bodies. They are an aluminium tube with wings. Fix a pair of wings to a tube of aluminium foil, throw it and see what happens. Yes, every time… And the wings are full of fuel. They must weigh a ton! How come they don’t fall off? My dad had a riveter when I was a kid. He made all sorts of things with it and they all fell to pieces. I am deeply suspicious of rivets…
And so, here I am, approaching the last days of a holiday that I know must end; the sun is in the sky, the beer is in my glass and rivets are in my head.
“Someone like you should not be allowed to start any fires” – David Bowie. ‘Win’
…Heated debate over the winner of BGT*. Some say right, some say wrong, some say any other point of view is stupid. Some say “Who are you calling stupid?” Some say “Well I don’t see too many other morons around here.” Some are upset with the use of the ‘Golden Button’. I wish I had a red one. A big one. With a bomb attached…
“…I think you’ve caught the sun our Vicky. Here, Chelsea, do you think Vicky has caught the sun?” “Well, she is a little bit red. Could it be how she was laying?” “No, I think she has caught the sun. I think you have caught the sun Vicky. You’ll have to put some cream on that when you get back to the room.” “Isn’t that her birthmark?” “No, that’s not her birthmark. I think she’s caught the sun.” “What shape is it?” “Well, it looks a bit like a duck. A red duck.” “That’s no duck. It’s more like a dragon. If it’s a dragon, it’s her birthmark.” “No, it’s a duck… or possibly a dog. Definitely not a dragon. I think she’s caught the sun.” “In the shape of a duck?” “Or a dog… She’ll need to put cream on it when she gets back to the room…”
“…What have you got Jacqui?” “I’ve got a Mojito. What about you?” “I’ve got Sex-on-the-Beach, you should try it, it’s quite nice.” “Oh no, I’ve had that before. It took me a week to wash the sand out. I’ll stick with my Mojito…”
“…You could see he was going to miss it as soon as he placed the ball. It’s that stuttering run up. He always misses when he does that. I knew he was going to miss as soon as he started his run up.” “But he scored.” “Did he? Oh, I must have been thinking of a different time. How did he run up?”
“…The MkIII is not as good as the MkII though.” “Really? Why did they make the MkIII then?” “What do you mean?” “If the MkII was better, why didn’t they just keep doing that?” “Well the MkIII had higher specs.” “So better then?” “Yes, better, but not as good. Ask the experts…”
…Conversation turns to holidays past. Places where you could buy 400 cigarettes for the equivalent of 50p; a litre of vodka (‘Smirnoff, not the cheap stuff’) for the equivalent of a single tot back home; a three course meal that was so cheap the waiter gave you a tip when you finished. Places where staff ‘knew their place’ and respectfully averted their gaze should the good lady inadvertently pop out a nipple during a game of catch. Not like here apparently… “It looks as though they’re putting a lot of rum into your Cuba Libre, but it’s all watered down, you know. You watch them, they have a different bottle for locals… Did I ever tell you about the time we stayed on a small Greek island and the natives had never even seen a Vape before? They thought we was some kind of wossname, God. To this day they still say ‘better out than in’ if they burp at the dinner table…”
*Britain’s Got Talent”– on this evidence it hasn’t.
Getting On 