Juliet England: What’s it like being ‘the hearing friend?’

Ruth first came into my life sometime in early 1991, when I was spending a year in Spain as part of my university course. She was teaching English in the same town, and one of her pupils was one of my flatmates.

There were few Brits in the town at the time, so he suggested she and I meet. Her visit led to numerous nights out and walking home as the streets were being washed, thinking that calling the workmen ‘Hose A’ and ‘Hose B’ was the funniest gag ever.

I like to joke that I’ve been doing my best to get rid of her for the last 28 years.

Anyway, last time I wrote for Limping Chicken, I took the plunge and asked a couple of trusted hearing friends how painful it was really for them to have to put up with my (very) loud voice.

The responses were intriguing. And now I have Ruth’s contribution: “Yes, you do often speak loudly, and it sometimes makes me jump if you suddenly say something when I’m not expecting you to. Generally, though, I’m not aware of other people reacting negatively to it, although sometimes they do notice, especially if I have to shout as well!”

(I should add that Ruth is quite easily spooked, especially if she’s waiting somewhere and I creep up on her and scream something in her ear. A constant source of delight.)

She adds: “I think most people in big cities are tolerant of all sorts of behaviour, and they’re generally loud environments anyway with traffic and music.” (Ruth is a Londoner born and bred, and so we often meet there.)

Her thoughtful response got me thinking. What is it really like being the hearing friend of a cloth ears?

Over the last three decades, as my hearing has steadily worsened, Ruth has gained endless experience of this, and adapted like a trooper.

She writes: “I’ve learned that some venues and activities are better than others. The café at the Royal Festival Hall, for example, is great, there’s lots of space and so on. But I am aware that if too many people are chatting away, that affects how much you can hear.”

She adds that being outside usually works well, although (obvs.) not in the dark. Clearly an expedition to the Kent coast a couple of years back lingers in the memory.

“I remember using my phone as a torch on my face so we could communicate when we went to Sandgate Sea Festival to check out the fireworks. I would have preferred not to attempt conversation at that point and just admire the show, but we hadn’t planned that ahead, and it was hard to explain in low lighting!”

A ‘slightly’ (I think she’s being generous, there) embarrassing incident (from the same summer? the one before? who knows?) clearly has also not gone unforgotten. This time, the outing was to Hampstead Ladies’ Pond for a bit of a wild swim. It was a somewhat chilly afternoon, and I’d leapt (OK, slunk) in without really thinking of how cold the water would be, and started shrieking, flailing around and moving my arms like the sails of a windmill. Understandably, this made the lifeguards decidedly twitchy.

“One told you to swim back to safety – you couldn’t hear her so she said it several times. That drew a bit of unwanted attention.”

I am not the only cloth-ears Ruth knows. She mentions an acquaintance with a hearing loss, and remembers a train journey with him where he was talking loudly.

“Some people in our carriage were a bit rude about him because he wasn’t aware of others around him. You handle it differently as you will often engage people in conversation when they are looking over, which is friendlier.” (Oh, stop!)

The odd case of public humiliation aside, Ruth’s other comments would be enough to make anyone blush.

“I think you have got good at reading my lips and body language and guessing what I’m going to say next. This sometimes leads to frustration if you’ve guessed incorrectly, and I have to start from the beginning because you leapt in with enthusiasm and missed some content.  Or we’re at cross purposes, though generally that leads to hilarity as you have got good at using humour to deal with communication blips.

“I think you’re a great listener, despite how hard it must be at times to tune in. And there’s a lack of self-pity and determination to lead the life you want to lead.” (Aw, shucks…too much!)

“Each time we meet up seems to be different, so I tell myself not to expect 100% success in communication, as I realise it’s probably exhausting for you to keep straining to hear. Then when you do hear me, it feels quite satisfying. And we do seem to communicate at about 95% success rate.”

We’ve quietly stopped trying to communicate by phone, mainly because it’s just too much hard work, but also because it’s not really necessary in a world of texts, Facebook and emails. Although, to be fair, Ruth persisted valiantly with my textphone longer than most. But perhaps, ultimately, that solution works better for non-personal exchanges.

“That was weird, having a third person in the conversation, who was trying not to be! I’d end up talking to them too, or we’d end up including them in the chat – it just seemed rude not to! But stilted and made our calls a bit clunky,   almost formal.

“Once I’d forgotten what I’d said and my sentence was too long. The operator prompted me by saying ‘summat about chocolate’. It was quite funny as he sounded so bored! We both laughed.”

Laughing. It’s something we seem to do pretty well together. I hope there’ll be many more laughs for many years to come.

• Juliet England is a partially deaf freelance writer