Juliet England: My deafie diary Part 11 – life in Lockdown

Continuing Juliet’s experiences of daily life with a hearing loss – now in lockdown

The days are long, but the weeks are short, as someone has described this lockdown. (Or is it the other way around? And shouldn’t that be months rather than weeks?)

Anyway, whatever. It is the shortest of times; it is the longest of times.

I would love to say things have changed radically since last month, but of course not much has. Life in half-soundless lockdown drags on much as it has done since May. And April. And March.

I often catch myself ending the day thinking it has been strange, yet all days are strange these days.

And so it goes on. I continue to be overtaken on the riverbank by runners, walkers and small children (sometimes on their little bikes, in my defence), none of whom I can hear.

I continue to chortle at the mistakes of the subtitles, and get frustrated at the inevitable delays when live reports are on. Most importantly, I have continued to ask – where on earth are my hearing aids, and, equally, the batteries?

I also wonder when life became so phone-based – was it always like this?

Recently I locked horns with the mortgage provider who runs my home insurance. With a bit more time, allegedly, for the old personal admin, I decided to sort out a minor issue. It took a few emails to sort the thing out, but to their credit they did, having initially insisted that it was impossible to alter a policy unless by phone. Then, to add insult to having been helpful, they wrapped up our interactions by inviting me to phone if I needed anything else, thus undoing all their good work in one fell message.

A query about a routine hospital appointment in London went through relentless rounds of emails and text messages before I finally established that actually, thankfully, I don’t need to brave pestilence-ridden tubes and trains and travel to the capital after all. Good news, but not without some cost to my mental health.

There is still no more news on my longed-for cochlear implant, or updates on the meeting with the surgeon that was meant to have gone ahead in April.

Then there is my ongoing battle with Britain’s favourite supermarket. (I may have made the last three words up.) They are pathologically incapable of texting me to announce the delivery driver’s arrival, no matter how many times I protest. The little dance we go through each week is so reliable it’s almost comforting. And now I can’t even get cross because the delivery slots are rarer than the sight of my own hearing aids. But they would do well to remember that every little helps …

Talking of the phone, lockdown has brought another problem. There is no one to listen to voice messages for me, no helpful librarians or gym receptionists. Yet I know the unlistened-to messages are there, offering who knows what golden, missed opportunities.

I have done my first little trip into town for three months. Having nearly waited in the wrong queue for the wrong mobile phone shop when I asked because I couldn’t hear behind a face mask (it doesn’t help that the stores are next door to each other, so the lines were confusing), I was then unable to hear the masked staff at the right one.

Sitting two metres apart from the ‘customer happiness assistant’, the struggle continued, and I left with my issue barely resolved. I am not sure I will be rushing back.

Video calls remain tricky. A friend’s online fiftieth birthday celebrations at the weekend provided a great chance to wave at old uni buddies, but that was about it. I tried a bit of instant messaging with individuals, but then started sending the wrong chats to the wrong people (I blame the wine), and only distracted them from the main conversation, so I slunk off early.

I’m helping judge my local theatre group’s new playwriting competition, which has been a happy task. But I’m filled with dread at the forthcoming online meeting, and have no idea if I’ll even know what play they’re discussing as we go through the entries.

Finally, meet-ups with friends must, of course, take place outside, where words drift away on the summer’s breeze. It was a mistake to sit with one friend to drink our tea on the patch of grass outside my building, as the traffic roared past the other side of the hedge.

Still. It’s not all bad. We later decamped to a sun-warmed bench by the river, where it was a bit easier for me to hear, and looked at the geese and swans and the sparkling water. My friend had a fit of hysterics when I asked if the  birds hibernated.  (I meant migrate, well, obviously. Easy mistake to make.)

It made me realise one of the biggest traumas of all in this. I was unable give him the hefty thump that was so richly deserved.