Not hearing at my gym

This morning I slept through three vibrating alarm calls. Three! Before waking up 10 minutes before I had to leave the house.

The shock of seeing the time on my watch saw me sit up in bed so quickly it actually fell off the wooden blocks that make it high enough to store my shoes underneath, before flying out of bed, tripping over my phone charger cable and face planting the carpet.

This is not a recommended way of starting the day.

I am now sat, wild haired and wild eyed on the bus, wearing the weirdest combination of clothes, including an angora sweater that I bought nearly a decade ago.

I have no idea what my fellow passengers must think, particularly as I am also eating bread straight from a bread bag – I only had two slices left and it seemed like a good plan at the time.

Anyway, this week is flying by – with a mix of work, gym and tap dancing classes, plus far too many dinners out for my waistline and bank balance.

But on the hearing front, I am struggling. First there was my spinning class with the big ginger gorilla. Normally I follow him OK as he doesn’t turn the lights out, but yesterday he did, and I had no clue what was going on. Then, yesterday evening in body conditioning class, my teacher conducted the most undeaf-friendly class ever – even though she knows I’m deaf.

There were noisy steps that drowned out her voice and a million exercises that saw me lying on my back with absolutely no clue what was going on. The Singing Swede tried to help, but even she – with hearing – found it difficult to follow.

What frustrates me about this is that I don’t feel like I can say anything. I mean, why should I expect these people to tailor their classes to suit me? Is that fair on the other 20 people in the class?

And the logical answer is no. But what also frustrates me is that these classes are the pick of the best. They’re the ones that I have gratefully found after trying a wealth of other classes that were even more undeaf-friendly.

But I am going to persevere – mainly because if I don’t then there will be nothing to balance out all the delicious food I’ve been consuming this week.

And in other news, it is nearly time for my holiday. I am flying with British Airways – does anyone know what provisions they have for deaf people in terms of in-flight entertainment?

If so, let me know!

Have a good day, peeps.

DG

x

A big mishearing mishap

Today is Thankful Friday.

And I am thankful to Gym Buddy for making me laugh until I nearly fell off my chair last night.

We went for dinner in Covent Garden to a little Italian place with a very amorous waiter – I think he was flirting with me, but it’s been a while, so he could have just had something in his eye that caused him to wink at me constantly.

Anyway, inbetween the free drinks he was plying us with, we were chatting about Gym Buddy’s family when she told me about how her niece – aged 2 – has a massive crush on Mr Gym Buddy and that when he’s in the room she's only interested in him. Then, one morning her niece had mistaken a bin bag for Gym Buddy’s husband and run towards it squealing his name.

I listened, a bit bemused that this could have happened – surely toddlers can tell the difference between bin bags and people? – but I laughed politely before finally asking, ‘Wasn’t he a bit upset about this?’ To which she replied, ‘No, he thought it was hilarious.’

‘I’m not sure I’d take being mistaken for a bin bag so well,’ was my response.

SILENCE

DISBELIEF

LAUGHTER

It turned out Gym Buddy had said Bin Man – one had been on the front drive emptying their bins at the time and her neice had spotted him through the window. But when when she said man, it lipread it the exact same as bag, and as my Ma had once mistaken a bin bag for my Pa – but that’s a whole other story – I guess I thought maybe mistaking people for bin bags was actually quite common.

Gym Buddy however, started to giggle hysterically, which set me off and very quickly we were both beyond help, unable to speak, breathe or sit up straight anymore.

I. WAS. MORTIFIED though and thanked my lucky stars that Gym Buddy also saw the funny side of me effectively comparing her husband to a bin bag.

And the dishy Italian waiter? Well, it turns out he was flirting with me. He made me promise to come back soon and winked so much I thought he was going to strain something.

But do you know what? Those two things combined left me with a much-needed grin on my face – and even today, it’s still there.

When I could hear music…

Last night I went to see one of my favourite pianists perform at the Wigmore Hall – Cédric Tiberghien.

Playing an array of Debussy, he had the audience captivated throughout and on finishing provoked calls of ‘Bravo!’ from the many French people in attendance.

The review in its entirety will be in next month's Hearing Times, but what yesterday did resurface within me was all the memories of when I could hear a bit more than just one octave above middle C. In fact, if I'm honest, lately it's more like a fifth above middle C.

As a child, I was captivated by music, mainly by the emotions it could provoke within people. Unknowingly, I created a memory bank of sounds and melodies that even today I can call up at a moments notice.

For instance, one of my favorite things as a very small kid was playing the piano with my arms spread as far as possible so I was hitting the very high and very low notes. Those high ones, with their tinny resonance, are still there in my head even now.

I also remember my violin – I was going to be a concert violinist don't you know – and how, as I shot up the grades, harmonics became one of my favorite things. That ethereal sound you could create with the lightest touch of your finger on the string, and the vibration coursing down your fingertip. Of course as I went deafer, the vibration became the most important aspect of this. And as feeling vibrations in my fingers wasn't the reason I took up the violin, I sadly gave it up.

And then there's my flute. I have an excellent memory bank of its sound as luckily I'd reached a good grade before my hearing plummeted. I remember the amazing sound that came flying out, how a subtle change in fingers and diaphragm tension could send the pitch rocketing, and I remember thinking, 'That's me doing that'.

Once that sound had gone from my reach, the memory bank did sustain my flute playing. High pieces were played an octave or two lower initially so I knew how they sounded, and my teacher taught me to visualise the sound. 'If you see it, it will come,' he used to say like some kind of wise guru. And he was right.

But it wasn't enough. It was like being in madly in love with someone but only having a photograph to look at – never the real thing. I began to feel sad when I played my flute, and this emotion was only really useful when playing Reinecke's Sonata Undine, which is about a stroppy mermaid.

Sometimes I feel as though my deafness has sucked the joy out of music, but yesterday I was reminded that it's simply killed the joy in me making music. But not in me watching others make music.

As I watched Tiberghien from my seat, chosen especially so I could finger-read the high bits, I felt the familiar buzz I get from amazing music – from seeing someone else create that amazing music. And I pushed that incredible longing for it to be me making the amazing music to one side and just enjoyed it for what it was.

You see, wondering what could have been won't really get you anywhere. If I hadn't have gone deaf, I might not have been such a geek at school and therefore music wouldn't have been cool. I might have achieved even less musically, whereas instead I can be proud that I got my Grade 8 flute just two years after my hearing plummeted.

And today? Well I'm conjuring up my sound memories to hear the Reinecke once again. Though there are recordings of me playing it, they are of no use to me. It's in my head, every cadenza, wave crash, heartbreak and trill. They're all there. And as I sit here on the bus, it’s like I'm not deaf anymore...

…just for a little while anyway.

Deafinitely Girly's amazing weekend

Wow, what a wonderful weekend I had.

Busy – check

Hungover – check

Fun-filled – check

Friend-filled – check

Food-filled – check

So all the perfect ingredients were there, and just for good measure I threw in a trip to Ikea with the French Man.

I know, I know, Ikea and a raging Saturday hangover might now seem like the brightest idea, but actually it all worked out well, as there’s a surprisingly large number of places to sit and lie down while walking around Ikea and I think I utilised them all.

The trip to Ikea was actually for plants. Ever since Swiss Man from Japan recounted his plant buying expedition, I have been feeling my own need to go plant buying there and so, armed with the French Man for advice and carrying skills, I set off.

And I bought a giant plant masquerading as a Yucca that isn’t a Yucca – and I love it. It’s actually called Ralph and is residing in my sitting room trying his hardest to get in the way of the TV.

Buying a real live plant is a big commitment to me. Before this, I’ve had chilli plants, peace lilies, a lavender, and even a goldfish called Charlie but invariably, I give them all up to people better able to care for them.

I am commitment phobic of caring for living things. Even the mice in my flat move on eventually.

So Ralph, the non-Yucca, is a big deal for me.

Also this weekend I saw some of the best people in London – NikNak and Country Boy 1, Friend Who Knows Big Words, The Singing Swede and GB Man. To say my meetings with them were restorative would be a massive understatement. It was their chats over cups of tea, curry and Jaffa Cakes that kept me moving forward on a weekend where I would have otherwise spent the whole time sleeping.

And now, there’s more exciting news. The Girl That Can’t Help But Knit has popped in for a visit – bringing of course her knitting with her. It’s fab to catch up and hear about the amazing adventure she’s about to embark on. Travelling around the world with 18 men CANNOT be a bad thing, surely?

So all that’s left for me to do is wish you a happy Monday. I hope this week will be a 5-day blog week – there’s deafinitely lots of fun things in store…

DG

x

Frustrated with subtitles

Ever had one of those sleeps where you feel like you blinked and suddenly it was time to get up?

That's how I feel this morning. When my alarm went off at 6.30am I answered my clock like a phone, convinced someone was calling me in the middle of the night, which was made even more bizarre by the fact that I don't really use the phone.

Then on waking a bit more, I didn't check my emails or Twitter as I usually do, as I convinced I had just done that. I had indeed, but 6 hours ago.

I didn't eat breakfast either as my body is still convinced it's only just had dinner. What is going on?

Where did my sleep go? And more worryingly, how am I going to get through today?

Anyway, what I really want to talk about subtitles – something I haven't had a proper moan about in a long time. And the reason why I haven’t been moaning? Well, I think I've just become accepting of the substandard quality of them. I've learnt to not get frustrated by them during the news, or sports, or comment programs. Mainly because I've stopped watching them. Aside from BBC Breakfast, I no longer rely on TV to keep me up to date on current affairs, I rely on the Internet.

But last night, after a body conditioning class with the Singing Swede, and while eating dinner at hers, it was her turn to remark on the subtitle quality. And this was on a prerecorded programme on Channel 4.

In fact, the subtitles were so far behind, we had to give up watching Gok and his clothing roadshow, as I had no clue what was going on.

'In Sweden this just wouldn't happen,' she told me. 'The subtitles are seamless and matched to the dialogue, even on live programmes.'

Imagine that? Decent subtitles! I wonder if Sweden and other countries that show programmes in foreign languages have to provide good subtitles because otherwise the whole TV-watching nation would be up in arms? I mean, this is not just a service for deaf people over there, it's a service for everyone.

But this means, that the technology is there for better subtitles surely? And if it, then why aren't we getting it? Why is it acceptable to fob the UK’s deaf population off with spelling errors, text that's so behind it doesn't make sense, and huge gaps where it has to play catch up?

I spend my whole non-TV watching life playing ‘Guess What's Going On’ and trying to make sure I’m following things, surely my TV watching shouldn't be the same, especially when in this instance the subtitles should simply be following a script?

Unless things improve, I think that deaf people should be able to pay a reduced licence fee – we simply do not get the same service as hearing people, so why should we have to pay for it?

Anyone fancy joining me in my campaign?