Juliet England: Back at an office desk again – with a hearing loss

It had been more than a decade since Juliet England had last darkened the doors of an official workplace. How would she and her hearing loss fare back at the working coalface?

Ah, offices. Where most of us are doomed to spend most of our working lives. They can be something of a minefield for us deafies, of course, what with all those half-caught conversations, phone calls and pesky meetings to follow.

I’d more or less entirely managed to avoid the places for the last 10 years or more, apart from the (very) odd half day here and there, plus the occasional interview.

And I couldn’t, hand on heart, say I’ve missed these gaffs too much over the last decade and a half. My last boss sweetly told me I ‘shouldn’t be working in communications with a hearing loss.’

She also charmingly likened my general competence to the usefulness of the proverbial chocolate teapot, a slur which, interestingly, was actually rendered a compliment when, nearly five years ago, scientists genuinely created such a thing.

Anyway, these days I prefer to slop around my own gaff, working for various people from home when a committed daytime TV viewing schedule allows. I consider being able to work in my pyjamas not so much slothfulness as a basic human right, one that Amnesty should probably champion.

So when I got the call (metaphorically speaking that is, I’d never be able to hear a real call) to work a day a week writing fundraising applications for a small local charity, in an actual office, my natural instinct should have been to run a mile, only I’ve never been able to run that far.

And so it came to pass that, halfway through one night (OK, OK, about half eight), I found myself on a rush-hour bus, alongside all the other whey-faced commuters making their way to the coalface for the start of the daily graft.

I’d ensured a couple of things before getting that far. For reasons too dull to expand upon, the office shuts at half four, so I knew I was in for a shorter-than-average working day.

Equally, I only took the gig on the understanding that I wouldn’t answer the phone. Ever. Not even once. After all, who wants to call a charity in distress only to be asked to repeat what they want a thousand times?

All the little aspects of office life came flooding back that first morning. The packed lunch in the fridge. The complex and bewilderingly intense, complex politics surrounding the tea run. The various horrors of the shared lavatorial facilities.

For a cloth-ears, I’m surprisingly sensitive to noise, and used to nothing more alarming than the reassuring tones of Radio 2 of a morning. (It’s about time I came out as a middle-aged easy listener, if not hearer.)

So having people talking around me certainly seemed odd at first, and the conversations ebb and flow around me for most of the day. I catch so little of what is being said that I am often not even sure how many of the chats are work-related.

To communicate, people have to talk to me face-to-face, so I remain pretty much in my own little world, something which, I’m sure, led me to gaining something of a reputation for stand-offishness in previous ‘proper’ jobs.

The CEO of the new place has, in fairness, been very good and patient as far as my malfunctioning ears are concerned.

I know better than to pretend I’ve heard and understood an instruction when I haven’t, and she doesn’t mind repeating things. (I should think not, but, unfortunately, good practice in the workplace can’t always be taken for granted.)

It’s the sort of place where people come and go throughout the day, and I’m not always aware of who’s who, or why they’re there.

A ‘colleague’ did introduce me to one visitor the other day, which was thoughtful. But I didn’t catch their name, or reason for visiting, and couldn’t face getting them to repeat it a third time, so just smiled and nodded and said hello, while praying they wouldn’t actually ask me anything.

Given the nature of the charity’s work, confidential conversations sometimes occur, and, even though I can’t hear them, the client doesn’t necessarily know that, and so I discreetly go and make a cuppa elsewhere for the duration.

Yes, it’s been mildly tedious having to explain the pesky ole hearing loss to a new group of people. The building is shared and the kitchen communal, meaning banal pleasantries about the weather are often exchanged with staff from other organisations. And not being able to hear has to be explained all over again with each new person.

But on the whole, returning to a decent day’s graft with other people in an actual office has proved to be a surprisingly positive experience. If they ask me to stay once our current arrangement is up, I may even be tempted to say yes.