Juliet England: My deaf diary – part 4

Saturday 16 November

To London, for lunch with some (very, ho, ho) old mates I was at university with in the Early Middle Ages. Now are our own middle ages are pretty advanced, and some of us have celebrated Significant Birthdays this autumn. We gather at a gaff in Kensington called Maggie Jones, apparently because that’s the name Princess Margaret used when booking her favourite table. Who knew?

Anyway, of course, of course, it’s lovely. But in the gloom of the autumnal afternoon, and with the lights turned down low, panic starts to set in. I sit next to one woman with whom contact over the years has been sporadic at best. More than once, I realise I’ve asked her something she’s already explained. She’s incredibly polite, the merest flicker of irritation just barely registering on her face. There is Prosecco. It’s gorgeous, but I’m a hopeless daytime drinker, and I’m sure it only adds to the confusion.

I walk to the tube with someone who I hadn’t seen for the best part of two decades. It turns out she also has a hearing loss, and we commiserate with each other about how hard it was to catch anything as we scurry along in the gathering dusk. We say goodbye warmly at Paddington, yet both knowing that, realistically, we are probably not to be reunited for another two decades, if at all.

Monday 18 November 2019

In late September, I auditioned for something called New Voices at my local BBC radio station. I spoke for 60 seconds about the perils of deaf dating and the merriment of TV subtitling getting it wrong.

I passed, although only a very few were recalled to perform again. Instead, around 20 of us who made it through the first round are invited to visit the station. We see the newsroom, the studio and the clock that turns a particular colour to alert people to the death of the prime minister or a senior Royal.

Inevitably, as with any guided tour, I only catch a fraction of what’s being said, and chats to my fellow guests are somewhat strained.

I tell the editor of the station he needs a deaf voice. He whips out his own hearing aid form under his curly hair in agreement. Perhaps it will happen.

Thursday 28 November 2019

From the Question Time subtitles – ‘Boris Johnson should have been found prostate in a ditch by now’. It certainly conjures up an arresting image.

Friday 29 November 2019

As election fever fails to grip the nation, I’d like to help my MP be re-elected, since he’s the only candidate in our area who could possibly keep The Other Lot out. I know I’d be a useless phone canvasser, and arguably little better on the doorstep, so I’ve been a bit of a slouch in terms of actually doing anything.

A kindly local librarian listens to a voicemail message for me, and explains that it’s from the constituency office, asking if I could lend a hand on polling day.

I text to offer my services, explaining that I can’t drive or hear well, but could help out assuming neither of those skills were needed.

“Great! Just give me a call if you have any questions,” comes the reply.

And how am I supposed to do that? I don’t text back, but want to.

In other news, I’ve had to cancel an appointment with my local branch of my mortgage company to discuss my insurance. All very boring, but it turns out I am paying for garden cover when I don’t even have a garden. It could be sorted quickly over the phone, of course, only… Also, for some reason this insurer doesn’t communicate with customers by email.

I send a direct Twitter message, asking for a different day and time, naively believing a new arrangement can be made in a jiffy.

A long and increasingly emotional conversation ensues, in which I insist that, as they were happy to see me before, while I’m sorry I’ve had to cancel, surely I can just rock up and we can sort this out in five minutes over a cup of bad instant coffee?

Oh, no. Oh, ho, ho, ho, no. To cut the proverbial long story short, they won’t help me after all, and I am back to square one. Marvellous. There are some deep teeth marks by my left elbow.

Saturday 30 November 2019

I feel woefully underprepared for my first cochlear implant assessment, approaching with the inevitability of a juggernaut lorry near the middle of next month.

I am struggling more than ever with my hearing aids. Yet I fret constantly about the impact of an implant on my life. At a recent audition at the theatre I belong to, for example, I never even told the director about it, yet the CI could seriously affect my ability to take part if I am cast. Should I have said something?

Sometimes, you just want someone to tell you what to do.