Deafinitely Girly's shopping ban

There comes a point in life sometimes where you have to say 'Enough, I have enough.' and for me, that point came yesterday as I was tidying my flat and wondering where to put everything... namely clothes and shoes.

While I'm not one of those people with wardrobes packed full of things I've never worn, I am one of those people that likes to keep my wardrobe up to date, I like wearing what's in fashion – for example, coloured jeans – but I'm not always very good at stopping at the one pair.

My wardrobe isn't dripping with designer items either. I'll TKMaxx it for labels and happily buy everything else when I see it, wherever that may be and preferably as cheap as possible.

But it's become clear, I have enough.

Further more, the fashions seem to have become cyclical. Anything seems to go. Boots can still be tucked into jeans eight years on, blazers have been happily existing since the early 2000s and the only sad thing in my book is that platform trainers are not fashionable anymore – they're excellent for keeping flares out the rain.

Yesterday I bought a pair of pinky/red skinny jeans which were DKNY, £124.99 and exactly what I'd been looking for. Ouchy yes but I got them for £19.99 in TKMaxx. However, it was as I was cutting four inches off the bottom and hemming them, that I decided that was enough. The coloured jean obsession ended here. The shopping ended here. I was going to enjoy the clothes I had. If there was something I wasn't keen on, it would go to charity and anything that could be altered, updated, mended or recycled would be.

For six months.

Starting tomorrow.

Included in the ban is all clothes – except bras (I'm still searching for the ultimate T-shirt one) – and beauty products. I want to wear, enjoy and use every last thing in my cupboards. To help me in my challenge I am banned from buying magazines – although I will still snaffle the free ones – and have unsubscribed from every single shopping email that comes into my inbox.

What excites me the most about this challenge is the positive impact it's bound to have on my finances. I am not concerned that I will run out of things to wear or stuff to put upon my hair, because thanks to being a Superdrug blogger for two years, for the latter I have rather a lot in reserve.

I am also excited about the space it's going to create. Last night, I collected a load of stuff for charity by asking myself this question, 'Would I choose this over everything else in my wardrobe?' If the answer was no, then it was bagged up.

That's the thing you see, and I'm sure it's the same for many others, I have fashion favourites. When packing for a weekend at the moment it's all about the blue blazer, Gap cotton jumpers and green jeans. I'm neglecting a ton of stuff that's in fashion and right there in my wardrobe because it's easier to grab the stuff on the back of my bedroom chair.

Well, not anymore. From now on, I'm going to try and put together a new outfit every day. I'm going to find things I never knew went well together and I'm going to remind myself that I look good in them...

That's the other thing you see, things that once looked great, stop looking great because of the constant evolution of fashion. I have dresses I know looked great when I got them, but right now, I'm not sure about them because of the length of the hem, the sleeves, the neckline… 

The same with shoes – remember the chunky heel trend of 1999 or the stiletto moment of the mid 2000s?

Thankfully, I've always been a fairly classic shopper so haven't got too many Edina from Ab Fab items lurking, but oh, to have to her confidence at carrying off anything.

And I think that's the final thing I'm hoping to achieve in this six-month challenge. A confidence boost. A reminder that I look nice in the clothes I already own, not the ones I have yet to buy.

I'm hoping with the money I don't spend, I can start to collect savings again. Stop proclaiming my poorness when really all I needed to do was shop less.

And will I write about it? For sure, but not here on the DG homepage... You can find my challenge journey here.

(Deaf) things are getting better (?)

This week is going to be super busy in my day job trying to fit everything in before the long Jubilee weekend...

Four days break. Hurrah!

I'm writing this from a sweltering hot bus. It's 7.30am. And the fact that it's sweltering can only be a good thing in my book.

You see this poor weather is damned if it does and damned if it doesn't at the moment. We need rain, we get a whole month of it and everyone moans. We wish for sunshine and soaring temperatures. We get it and everyone moans.

I kind of think we should search for the positives in the situation such as: I've worn more summer clothes in the past few weeks than I did the whole of last summer.

But that's quite enough about the weather. This morning I want to talk about on-demand TV via iPhones.

The amazing BBC iPlayer offers subtitles on its iPhone app so that even from the comfort of my bed, at times of complete insomnia I can watch a bit of TV and understand what's going on.

So last night I thought I'd download the other channels' apps: ITV, Channel 4 and Channel 5. I was hopeful they too would offer this accessible service. After all, if one can do it, why can't the others?

But it seems the others can't. I searched high and low for a subtitles setting, I checked every crevice of each app and all appeared to have none.

It was very disappointing to delete each app less than 5 minutes after downloading.

But what it made me realise is that recently I've stopped demanding answers for things like this. I've taken a bit of a back seat. Gone are the days of shouting at the BBC for its shocking subtitle efforts – to be fair I rarely need to anymore – and I haven't fired off a stroppy enquiring email for an age.

What's happened?

Well, in all honesty, I got busy. But I also think things have improved quite considerably in the three years I've been moaning/blogging.

For example, not even the computer iPlayer had subtitles back then, there were hardly any subtitled plays and it was a miracle to discover a transcript of an audio guide at museums and galleries.

Nowadays it's as though all that moaning, not just from me but from other brilliant people demanding better deaf services has worked.

So what's your favourite technological improvement as a deaf or hard of hearing person? Do you have a favourite app you can't live without? And what still has room for improvement?

For me, subtitled iPlayer rates pretty high. That, my iPhone lyrics app and being able to see King Lear with subtitles at the Donmar Warehouse. Things I'd like more of are regular subtitled films in the evenings not just at 2.30 on a Tuesday afternoon.

Let me know what you think...

Not hearing my Pa on the phone

This morning I am tired and sofa shaped. And the reason for this is I fell asleep on my sofa and woke up at 4.40am this morning.

Now, this would be all well and good if my sofa was one of those DFS advert ones where people loll around all over them, limbs everywhere.

But my sofa isn't one of them.

It's a very beautiful, pale blue, high-armed 157cm long sofa that means my compact living room still has enough room for erm… living in.

So when I woke up in the first light of dawn, my neck was bent like a giraffe in the womb and my feet were resting on the window sill... and I'm not tall.

Groaning, I staggered to bed, for two hours with a hot water bottle on my neck and now here I am, sat on the bus, primed for a day at the office, with the mobility of a Thunderbird.

Marvellous.

But let's move on we, because today is thankful Friday.

And today, I'm thankful for my Pa.

Yesterday he was in town meeting up with some old friends of his. They're all record experts so went on a sort of shop-crawl around the best CD shops in the capital. (Ma, if you're reading this, I think Pa was just window shopping. There were NO CDs in any of his carrier bags).

Anyway after work I met him for an early supper before he was due to get the train home again. He rang me – something only The Rents do – and told me he was in a Costa on Regent Street.

'I know it' I said and dashed out of work. I arrived at Cafe Nero and rang him. 'Where are you?' I said.

'At the Costa on Regent Street' he said.

Deaf girl fail: 1

'There isn't a Costa on Regents Street,' I replied, barely able to hear him above the racket of the traffic.

'Upper Regent Street' he yelled.

And with a harrumph (sorry Pa) I hung up and strode/navigated/fought my way over Oxford Circus to get to Upper Regent Street.

No Costa.

Harrumph.

I rang him.

'There's no Costa on Upper Regent Street either,' I whined.

'It's opposite Miss Selfridge' he yelled.

'Miss Selfridge is on Oxford Street,' I pointed out. 'Are you in a Twighlight Zone, Pa?' I asked helpfully.

It turned out he wasn't. He was in fact in Great Portland Street, the next road along...

Pa fail: 1

So after eventually meeting up I took him for tea at Mother Mash in Ganton Street. It's a marvellous place... although I do wish they'd serve their sausages a bit crispier. We chatted and caught up and he gave me a present he'd got me that day – a mug with a very early London Tube Map on it, which as I am a bit of a Tube geek, I absolutely loved.

Pa is an excellent present buyer.

But what I was thankful for was my Pa's incredible patience with me shouting at him because I hadn't heard him on the phone. He took it all in his stride. He didn't once get mad at me and when we met up, my grumpiness wasn't even mentioned.

Pa is one of the most tolerant people of my deaf rants. He puts up with my impatience, my strops and my tantrums with a cool efficiency that is most impressive.

Although next time, I'm going to make him text me and perhaps send me a photo of where he is…

That way there will be no yelling.

And just for the record, THERE IS NO COSTA ON REGENT STREET…

Deafinitely Girly and the terrible din

Last night I got in rather late from London Aunt's. We were having a great old catch up that didn't end until the early hours of this morning. So when I arrived back at my flat, I tiptoed in so as not to disturb my neighbour.

But what a wasted effort that was because at 4am this morning, I was awoken by what I can only describe as a terrible din. It was the sound of someone trying to play the steel drums on the big metal industrial waste bins that belong to the pub on my road.

These giant tin cans on wheels normally only make a noise on bin days at 6am when wheeled and hurled into the waiting lorry, but last night they really let rip.

Astonished by the sheer volume of noise coming from outside, I got out of bed and peeked through the blinds and sure enough, there was a swaying, rucksack-adorned man wielding what looked like a Sigg Bottle and smacking the hell out of the bins.

It was quite a sight.

Eventually however, he seemed to give up and stumbled on his way down my road.

And did this make me mad? Did this make me shake my fist at him and grumble about my already short sleep becoming shorter? 

Well no not really. You see there are two silver linings to this event. The first is that I will never tire of being awoken by sound because it is one of my greatest fears not to be woken by sound. Being woken by sound is confirmation that my ears do still work even if it's only a little bit.

And the second silver lining? Well rather meanly I could pretty much guarantee that downstairs my neighbour would be doing her nut. She would be doing her nut at being woken up, doing her nut at the noise, doing her nut in panic that there was possibly a drunken psycho outside and I had a left the gate – which is held on my a dangling screw – open, and perhaps the best one of all, doing her nut that she couldn't blame it on me.

Ha!

It wasn't me.

Although, it did look kind of fun.

I may just invest in a Sigg Bottle at lunchtime.

Teehee

Deafinitely Girly and the Cath Kidston umbrella

Last Saturday I bought myself a Cath Kidston umbrella like this

It is a thing of beauty and, as its Fulton, it's pretty good quality, too. None of this blowing inside out malarkey and, even better, I can pull it down right over my shoulders and peer out between the flowers.

In short, I LOVE this umbrella.

As you can imagine, in the recent weather it's come in very handy, too. Every day I've been proudly walking through the streets of London under the safe embrace of my flowery shelter, and every day I've thought, 'I'm so glad I own this umbrella. So so glad.'

So as you can see, I really really love this umbrella.

Then yesterday, just before leaving work to go and vote, I proudly showed it to my boss. And then, I jumped on my first bus that takes me home.

On this bus, I proudly hooked my umbrella on the rail in front of my seat. 'Must not forget my umbrella,' I said to myself.

On changing buses I went upstairs and sat on the top deck. But something was missing, and if it wasn't my umbrella then I'd be a pretty crap story teller wouldn't I?

The bus with my umbrella hurtled by. I hurtled down the stairs of my bus and boldly asked the driver to 'FOLLOW THAT BUS!' She was more than happy to oblige as her route took her the same way, for about one more mile.

But then, disaster struck. A STUPID tourist got on my bus. He sat his entire family down and then got off again to buy tickets from the machine.

I watched my umbrella slowly slip away out of running reach. I tried to resist the urge to scream at the tourist. I tried not to cry.

The bus driver then stepped on it and we hurtled up Regents Street in hot pursuit. By Oxford Circus, after a collection of sinister red lights, I'd given up hope. But then, on turning into Oxford Street I decided the only thing to do was run, run after that damn bus.

So that is what I did. I threw my handbag over my shoulder, apologised to my heel-encased feet and legged it as fast as I could, dodging the BLOODY tourists who were intent on wandering at a snail's pace in the middle of the pavement.

By Bond Street I could see the bus in the distance. I pressed on.

By Selfridges, I could see it at a bus stop. It was so close my heart was almost breaking. My lungs felt like they were going to explode, my big toes were dislocating, but still I pressed on.

And then? A miracle happened. A red light held the bus with my umbrella on it just after the bus stop. I ran level with it and it started to move. I mouthed frantically as I spied my umbrella… the people on the bus were staring.

Finally, I got level with the bus doors and banged on them. The bus driver ignored me until I did the most impressive sign language of 'I'VE FORGOTTEN MY UMBRELLA' and with a smile he let me on.

I could have kissed him!

Staggering onto the bus, barely able to breathe, I grabbed my wayward umbrella and a little cheer went up as the passengers realised what had happened. I then stepped straight off that bus, gasping for air, into a crowd of commuters who were waiting for my original bus. When they heard my story they congratulated me and patted me on the back, laughing.

I tried to laugh but it came out as a rather strangulated wheeze.

But I didn't care, I had my umbrella back.

As I slid into my bus seat, I reflected on both my journey and that of my umbrella and drew the following conclusions:

I can run in heels

When motivated by my love of Cath Kidston, I can run fast.

Not all bus drivers are bastards.

The congestion in central London – the one that holds up buses – is not so bad after all.

And what a fitting tale for a very thankful Friday.

Have a good one peeps.

DG x

Today, Deafinitely Girly is 4 years old

Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to Deafinitely Girly, Happy Birthday tooooo-oooooooo me!

That's right - today is a very important day. It is the fourth birthday of Deafinitelygirly.com. The fourth year that I've been writing about being deaf in the city and having fun.

And what a four years it has been. There's been love, there's been heartbreak, there's been an awful lot of growing up - I bought a flat for heaven's sake  - and there's been a rather unfortunate hospital stay, which happened smack bang in the middle of it all and it's all recorded here, on this blog.

One of the things I love about this blog, is that it serves as a wonderful memoir for me to look back over, so see the introduction of new people, with new blog names, new jobs, new loves, new gyms, new everything.

For this trip down memory lane, I've included nice clickity clicky links so you can take a stroll with me, back to the days when...

I lived with Shakira Shakira. Boy, did we party hard, with sometimes hilarious results.

But as well as partying, I did try to be cultured too but not always successfully, as I discovered.

While other times it was a resounding success.

I learnt foreign languages.

I won competitions.

I took up running but quickly gave it up and joined a gym. But was told I needed a doctor's note to attend because of my deafness.

I got all emotional.

I continued to be a whirlwind in my little kitchen.

I made a few wedding cakes.

I accidentally went dating.

I learnt to tap dance… Kinda.

I finally got broadband.

And lots, lots more.

Looking back, it's amazing. Amazing to read about everything I've done. The friends who've got married, had babies, asked me to be bridesmaid, wedding cake maker, godmother. There's Big Bro who now has a whole family of Clogs. There's the Rents who never cease to amaze me.

And there's you guys - my fabulous readers. The ones who hit on me daily, even though recently, I've been more than a little quiet.

It's hard to believe that Deafinitelygirly.com was born one day over a brainstorming dinner with NikNak after a job interview where I was challenged to write my perfect column. In the year before that job interview, I'd had almost continuous writer's block, but it was as though the floodgates opened and everything came tumbling out.

Deafinitely Girly has been my therapy. She's enabled me to have tantrums, to shout about the frustrations I feel about my deafness, the sadness I feel about the uncertainty that I may somehow be missing out and then the elation I feel when I work through all the crap and realise that life's pretty damn good.

Deafinitely Girly's moved with the times, too. I'm on Twitter, where I'm far more vocal than I am on here these days.

But that doesn't mean I'm going anywhere. The posts will still happen, just not with the alarming frequency of the early days.

And while the lack of blogging may mean I'm busier than I used to be, it also means that just perhaps the blog worked. The home-made therapy worked. Do you know, when I first moved to London, every day I remembered I was deaf. It got in the way of things, tired me out, chewed me up and spat me out.

Writing Deafinitely Girly has allowed me to regain some of that emotional control over my disability.

The tough days occur less and less and my deafness has simply become a part of me. A part of me I wear with pride.

I'm deaf and girly.

I'm Deafinitely Girly.

And it's my fourth birthday.

Now, where's my cake?

Deaf Girl gets shut in a closed shop

I've been having a fantastically relaxing Easter break with The Rents, recovering from my cold, getting loads of sleep, eating the obligatory chocolate for breakfast on Easter Day.

Ma and I have also been having a bit of fun doing some shopping in some fabulous shops that simply don't exist in the Big Smoke. Now I know I'm going on a summer holiday, I wanted to get a new bikini so she took me to this massive shop down the road from their house and we had a great time trying everything on.

Halfway through our trying-on session, I realised that the music had stopped. Odd I thought, but then thought nothing more of it. I could also hear very faintly, the tinny tannoy going off every now and again, but as Ma is catching me up in the deaf stakes these days, neither of us had a clue what was being said.

So we carried on, until it got so quiet that I realised that the store was probably closing early - it was Good Friday after all - so I hurried Ma and we rushed out of the changing room into a closed store.

*cringe

It was so embarrassing. And the staff were kind of shocked to see us, too. And a little bit cross.

As we paid at a till they had to reopen, I asked the till girl if announcements had been made about the store closing two hours earlier than the time advertised on the door. 'Yes,' she replied… there had apparently been loads.

Keen to let her know we were not just disobedient shoppers, I explained that my Ma and I were deaf and she smiled politely/awkwardly/vaguely so I left it at that and we legged it from the store.

But this experience hit a bit of a raw nerve with me. As a child when I was going deaf and didn't know it, I would often get left places as I didn't hear the calls to leave. I would come downstairs in the house and not be able to find anyone as I hadn't heard their calls that they would be in the garden, or I would be on a school trip and the rest of the group would move on and I'd still be stood there engrossed in whatever we had been looking at.

As an adult, this experience transferred to sitting on buses that had already terminated, waiting at the doors of a train carriage that didn't open due to a short platform because I hadn't heard the announcement, and at my last job, turning around at work to find the whole building in the process of a fire evacuation and no one had thought to tell me.

It's embarrassing and sometimes downright scary and, while walking into a shut shop from the changing room might not bother most people, it made me feel incredibly stupid. It's why I always check the opening hours of store before I go in, I hate that feeling of announcements being made and me not realising what's going on until someone actually tells me, because when they tell me, they're not going to know they're telling a deaf person, in their mind they're telling a person who is holding them up from getting home for the evening.

Of course there's nothing I can really do about this, and the incident in my Ma's local shop is almost forgotten…almost. Think I might buy my next bikini online though, or first thing in the morning… just in case.

A very Thankful Friday

Today is Thankful Friday and I am thankful for many things.

Firstly for the fantastic evening I had last night. I went to see the Brain exhibition with Man With Beard at the Wellcome Collection and it was actually very interesting. There were bits of brains, whole brains, famous brains, videos of brains being frozen and thinly sliced and many other brain-related things. 

At one point – during a video showing a skull being opened up to reveal the brain – I was slightly worried I might pass out but my knees carried me through and I honestly am amazed at how much more I know about brains now.

Bring on the pub quiz, I say.

Anyway, afterwards we went to this teeny tiny cider place near Euston that Man With Beard had found by chance, and which turned out to be absolutely fantastic. Brilliant cider – the staff know their stuff –and a really nice atmosphere, too. 

I love it when you find a new place in London that's good to go to especially when it's a slightly random small brick structure overlooking the Euston Road with a teeny tiny 1st floor full of hipsters and with two tiny toilets crammed in the corner up a spiral staircase.

I'm also thankful that this weekend I get to see SuperCathyFragileMystic. We're going wedding dress shopping – for her – and it's going to be a weekend of much toasting the brilliance of the happy couple, and hopefully a combination of stunning gowns coupled with a few hilarious gigantic toilet-roll-dolly-style things! 

And finally, well I'm actually insanely thankful for Penfold and Dangermouse. They know why…

Have a great weekend peeps.

DG

x

Deafinitely Girly and Sipsmith Distillery

Yesterday evening I did something a little bit different.

I went on a tour of a gin distillery. The first new distillery in London for 200 years in fact, and it was marvellous.

Tucked away in the residential streets of west London, I walked past the building twice before finally asking Google Maps to tell me where this rather fabulous operation was taking place.

And this rather fabulous operation is called Sipsmith.

We were greeted by French Boy of Lea & Sandeman, which is a brilliant wine company that has several shops in west London, and Sipsmith Sam, one of a duo who set up the company.

This distillery, while small, is beautiful. The machine, called Prudence, recently celebrated her third birthday and her shiny copper exterior shows she's ageing well.

Surrounded by black barrels of ethanol we sipped on freshly made gin and tonics and listened to the fascinating story of Sipsmith and indeed of gin, while soaking up the former with delights from the Ginger Pig butcher and the latter with great interest.

We squished juniper berries between our fingers to release the scent, slurped neat vodka and gin, both of which were very palatable without even a hint of tonic, and heard about some new products in the pipeline.

The description of the distilling process was a simple science lesson – I understood it perfectly and as a result, I doubt I will drink any other gin or vodka again.

Rather fortuitously too, I was placed perfectly to lipread Sipsmith Sam, and even better, he was incredibly well spoken, so I was able to understand nearly everything, even through the gin fug that soon descended.

Wisely, after the tour, we hit the pub, where I preceded to dilute my gin and vodka intake with a pint of Otter Ale.

This means that today, I'm feeling a little fragile, so let's keep everything quiet please…

…which considering we're talking about my world, should actually be quite easy.

Watching My daughter, her deafness and me

Last night I sat down and watched the Rita Simons documentary that was shown on Tuesday evening.

I couldn't bring myself to watch it on the actual night, and I don't really know why that was to be honest. Perhaps because I was afraid how it would make me feel.

I had been in talks with several people connected to this programme about possibly appearing in it to give Rita an insight into what my life is like, and although I didn't really want to be on television, I do wish I could have shown Rita how amazing my life is.

And the programme? Well, it reminded me a lot of my childhood. Of my parents struggling to work out what might be best for me, what the next step was, what my future was going to be like. The constant struggle going on pretty much without my knowledge.

My parents would do amazing things to try and show me they cared about my deafness. They'd take me to deaf days where I could see the technology available to me - not quite so fancy in the 90s - and they even fought to get me on a waiting list to see a geneticist to find out more about my hearing loss.

At the former, I behaved atrociously. I didn't want to interact or find out more about any of it. I just wanted to be me. And the latter? Well the day of my appointment took so long to come around that by that time I could drive. I actively chose to miss my appointment. I went to school instead. I sat there all day and pondered at what was motivating me to act in such a defiant way when all my parents were doing was trying to help.

To this day I still don't know.

And was there a turning point?

Not really. I think I just grew up. You see, it's natural to be defiant as a kid, to do the opposite of what your parents want you to do. But I think because a lot of my defiance centred around something different - my deafness - it seemed like I was acting up about my deafness not just because I was a kid. If anything my deafness saved me from being defiant about other stuff because I was far to busy being defiant about it.

The emotion that I felt while watching the TV programme last night was raw and stemmed from far back in my childhood. The body language of Maiya at her hearing test, the look on Rita's face when she was trying to be upbeat about it - it gave me so many flashbacks.

But what I wasn't expecting was for the panic about cochlear implants to return.

Regular readers will know I had a bit of a wobble about whether I should even consider having one last year and in the end I decided it wasn't for me.

And this programme cemented that further when it was demonstrated how music sounded with one.

You see, the only reason I'd have a cochlear implant is so that I could hear music again. So I could play my violin. And if I don't get that back and actually it sounds completely different, then it removes all point of me having it.

But that's just me.

And that's what I said to the researcher of the programme when he asked me a generic question about deaf people. I felt it was incredibly important that he didn't see me as a spokesperson for anyone other than Deafinitely Girly. I am me, my experience of deafness is mine and my experience of hearing is mine.

I like my world while others might hate it and that's OK.

Rita finished last night by saying that she didn't understand why if given the option to hear, you wouldn't take it... and while I can see her point, I can't agree with it. It's so much bigger than just hearing the raw sound. It's about the quality and the quantity that you get. I'd rather not have any chocolate than a shitty bar of fake sugary chocolate that coated my teeth and tasted of nothing. And in the same way, I'd rather stick with things the way they are right now than risk creating a world that sounded so alien and so tuneless that I was stuck in an irreversible world of panic.

I'd rather keep my world, even if it's going to get quieter, even if I hear a little bit less of my flute every time I pick it up. But it's my world, no one else has to live in it. And that's why I'd never ever tell Rita Simons what I think is best for her child, because if Maiya is anything like me, then she'll probably do that herself.

Forgetting I'm deaf

Today is Thankful Friday and the only blog of the week. It's a disgrace, isn't it?

I think one of the reasons for my complete writer's block of late is that I simply can't bring myself to write about one of the main things consuming my thoughts right now  – my neighbour. Her shocking behaviour is on-going and to be honest, the only way I can deal with this is by sticking my head in the sand and simply getting on with things.

The realisation that some things really can't be fixed is a tricky one. I'm a fairly rational person – I can see both sides of the story and have, on more than one occasion attempted some sort of middle ground reconciliation with her downstairs. But at the same time, I have also stood my ground on issues that are important to me – the safety aspect of having a downstairs hallway filled with bikes for example – which she sees as some form of attack.

But it's not an attack, and her rage is akin to a toddler who can't get their own way. She's called me every name under the sun – not to my face of course, but the fireman was introduced to me as 'That bitch upstairs' and she cooly informed my window men that I wasn't very nice to her.

It's not about being nice, it's about not creating a fire hazard and mouse party with crap in the hallway.

You see why I'm not blogging right now, right?!?

Anyway, in amongst all this, a new development in my life is that I've actually found myself forgetting I am deaf. So either I've either been so stressed with other stuff I don't have room to worry about it, or I've succeeded in streamlining my life to occur without the constant remind that I am aurally challenged.

My phone never rings, I've worked up a good email relationship with people I need regular contact with, and my texting is so speedy, it's actually quicker than speech anyway.

And perhaps, non-aural services are improving, too.

Take the other day for example, when I was looking online for a replacement to my shoddy filing cabinet. I stumbled upon a website called The Dormy House and there I found a gorgeous Ottoman, with a concealed filing space inside.

Perfect, I thought and happily added it to my basket. But it was only at the till that I realised that while you could choose a specific delivery day, this would involve a phone call to organise and as a result, I hit cancel and went back to the drawing board.

The next day, my phone rang. I didn't pick up but instead googled the number and it turned out to be The Dormy House. Two minutes later, an email arrived in my inbox from Vicki at The Dormy House enquiring politely why I had not proceeded with my order. I replied immediately, explaining how, with my deafness, I was put off by the delivery methods.

Within five minutes, I had a reply – she could organise the immediate shipping of the Ottoman with delivery the following day if I ordered within the hour.

Incredible huh?

I did indeed place the order, and it did indeed arrive the next day and I marvelled at how, someone who hadn't even known I was deaf had made my life 100% easier.

And it's true, customer service is getting better for deaf people, or at least for me anyway – every week I find myself with another positive experience to add to the list, and the negative experiences are becoming less and less frequent.

Times are changing, things are getting better, subtitles – however terrible at times – are becoming more standard on catch-up TV, videos and even iTunes films and programmes. People are becoming more responsive on email – you no longer have to wait days for a reply where a phone call would generate an immediate response. I can do most things – pay bills, order things, organise workmen for my flat and indeed do my job –without ever needing to hear.

And that's what I am thankful for. I'm becoming more efficient, more productive, more satisfied and more 'normal'. Actually scap the last one. who wants to be normal anyway?!

Happy weekend peeps.

DG

x

Deafinitely Girly gets broadband

Guess what?!

I have broadband!!!!!!!

*insert image of hell freezing over here

I know, I always said I would never get broadband if I had to get a phoneline, too, but those lovely people at O2 cracked my resolve and finally I have joined every other household in the UK and got connected.

When researching the best broadband deals, I naturally found myself gravitating towards Virgin Media – they had hounded me with junk leaflets promising fibre optic broadband at amazing speeds in my area, and the biggest attraction with this is that you don't need a phone line to get it.

However, after a bit of research, I discovered the massive lack of subtitles on Virgin Catch-up TV, which quite frankly is a disgrace when even iPlayer on the iPhone can manage to shoehorn them in.

I could of course have opted for just Virgin Fibreoptic Broadband, but do you know what? There is very little incentive to do this – none in fact. There are no deals, no offers, nothing of the glossy promises given to those who want to take out the whole lot with Virgin. 

Couple that with my experience of the stroppiest ever Virgin representative on Twitter, and well, you can see why I struck them off my list.

O2 however, have wised up to this Twitter lark and that is how they got my custom. They're polite, courteous and get back to you within a few hours maximum. Nothing seems to be too much trouble – of course they could be sticking pins in an effigy of me behind the scenes, but up front, they're wonderful.

Abs – the person who held my hand through the whole thing – was wonderful.

And the deal?

Well, I have a phoneline – but it was only £7.50 a month, which rose to £9 before I'd even had it installed, but it gave me an excuse to pop this – a freebie from many moons ago – on my bookcase in the living room and, even if I will never EVER use it, it still looks rather fab.

But what about the broadband? Well, I got six months free because I was an O2 customer, and when there was a balls-up due to my address not existing, Abs sorted the whole thing out and rearranged my engineer visit to set the whole thing up – and he took this so seriously that he actually set up my wireless box for me, too!!

What's more, because I now have wireless at home, I can reduce the data package on my iPhone, which will all save the money needed to go towards my monthly broadband costs.

I've had broadband for nearly a week now, and if I'm honest, I'm not sure how I managed this long without it. I can chat to The Rents on FaceTime, say goodnight to Big Bro who lives in ClogLand and try my hand at lipreading my gorgeous little nephews, too. I can surf the internet to my heart's desire, watch all the catch-up TV I want – with fully functioning amazing subtitles – and generally do everything you lot have probably been doing for at least the last five years. Even better, it was SO easy to set up with the only frustration being the length of time I had to wait to have my phoneline connected. 

As companies go, I don't think I can fault O2 right now – and as the MASTER of complaining, that's saying something. It's a company that quite literally keeps me connected to the world, from unlimited text messages on my phone and an on-the-go data package to broadband and Wi-Fi, without all these, I'd be back to the 90s – back to asking people to help me do things, book things, find out things; back to wondering what was going on when I was out and about, missing out on stuff and generally feeling very isolated.

And for the price of a phoneline, I don't think that's a bad deal, do you?

Hearing at my gym

This morning I woke up unable to move without pain.

The cause for my old lady hobble?

A kettlebells class.

See, on Saturday, I went to the gym with the Singing Swede. She had tennis, I was going to do a circuit class. Except it became horribly apparent in the first few minutes that I wasn't going to hear anything, so I left.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was running on the treadmill, a guy came up to me to invite me to his gym-floor kettlebells class. Cross that I'd missed circuits, I checked with him whether I'd find it easy to follow and when he said yes, I signed up.

The class was good. You throw a metal weight around that looks like a door stop, you do sit ups with it, squats with it, leg raises and lifting. It goes fast, the pain of each exercise passes quickly, I came out pumped and confident... and crippled.

I cannot bend my legs, I cannot go downstairs – without saying ow on each step – and putting my shoes on this morning felt like the accomplishment of the year. My lower back feels like someone snapped it in half then mended it with Blu-Tack, and just putting one foot in front of the other is a mission.

And am I going to go back next week? Of course I am, because it was a class I could hear well. The instructor was clear, easy to follow, and able to remember for the full 30 minutes that there was a deaf person in his class, making sure I was OK but not neglecting any of his other clients in the process.

So you see I gained doubly from this class. OK today there's pain, but according to him my arse is gonna look amazing and my confidence? Well let's just say the frustration of walking out of a circuits class because of my deafness is long forgotten.

Bravo kettlebells, bravo.

Deafinitely Girly in the kitchen

Today is Thankful Friday. It is one week since my last post. This is not good.

This week has mostly been work and fitfully short sleeps peppered with bad dreams of exploding boilers and nutty neighbours.

Every night has seen a new worst-case scenario, and every morning I've woken up thankful that it didn't happen in real life, but utterly knackered, too.

This morning saw me waking with a start, late and now I'm on the bus, huddled on bottom deck as top deck seems to be about 10 degrees colder.

So what am I thankful for?

Well, Friend Who Knows Big Words should get a mention after she taught me how to make Pad Thai on Wednesday.

There I was, in my kitchen, recipe book out, every imaginable utensil being utilised, trying my hand at what is my favourite dish in the world, while FWKBW and Miss K chatter in my lounge.

When it came to the egg cracking bit, it became apparent it was all a bit out of control, so I yelped for help and FWKBW swept in an rescued the day. A dash of lime here, a sprinkling of sugar here, some crushed peanuts – thanks Miss K – and some coriander and we were ready to go.

And the result? Delicious actually.

I think my deep-set fear of trying to cook new things comes from my days of Home Economics at school. I never knew quite what I was meant to be doing so got by on a lot of guess work – except at 12 years old, my experience of guess work in the kitchen was limited to, 'The toast might burn if I put it down again' and 'thirteen minutes in the microwave is OK for melting chocolate isn't it? I'm going to watch Neighbours while it cooks.'

The reality of it was I watched Neighbours and simultaneously managed to set fire to the microwave at the same time.

And we shouldn't even mention the time I cooked flapjack in bun tins for 1 hour...

So I guess it wasn't really a surprise when I was banned from doing Home Economics at GCSE  for fear of bringing my school's league tables down.

But I think it was their lack of faith in me that made me panic more.

My year 9 cooking consisted of a chicken dish made in the microwave that came out quite frankly as chicken a la salmonella, and I discovered that cakes don't rise if you put them on the floor of the oven, they just become warm batter.

So I'm thankful that FWKBW remained completely confident that whatever I had done to the Pad Thai – cooked it on a low heat, forgotten the prawns, used white not brown sugar, and spilled most of it on the floor – it would still taste utterly delicious.

It's made me more brave.

I'm going to try other new things in my kitchen. My repertoire should not be limited to cupcakes and er… cupcakes.

Dinner anyone?

Deafinitely Girly thanks you

Complete silence on the blog recently I know.

And the reason? Well I've been stressed, which is a sure trigger for writers' block for me.

And the reason for my stress? Well my Twitter followers will know already. My neighbour.

In the last few weeks I have had three letters and an email all complaining about noise. And as my Pa has been staying and various other hearing guests have been and gone, I've been fortunate to have double the confirmation that no noise has been occurring.

She says she can hear me walking around. I wear soft, feather-filled slippers and my carpet is resting on a good 2cm of extra-heavy and expensive underlay, which in turn is on wooden sheets, which in turn lie on floor boards.

She says she can hear my boiler. I had a boiler man come out who says it's a normal boiler making normal boiler sounds.

She says my washing machine is too loud. I never put it on except in the middle of the day, rarely use it as it's just me in the flat and never use a spin above 700. To top it all off, I even consulted a buildings engineer who said that in buildings of the age of mine, sounds will travel. And guess what? I can hear her washing machine, too.

She says I get up to early. I'm a professional in London. I don't get up and do star jumps across the room. I get up, put on my feather-filled slippers and go and stand under the shower for a good 10 minutes, pad back, get my clothes from the cupboards and drawers I purposefully leave open the night before so I don't make too much noise in the morning and then leave for work.

My bus is always rammed. Evidence that the whole of London gets up with me, which would suggest that it's not to early in general. Just to early for her.

She says she can hear me if I talk in my bedroom. I live alone and believe me, a conversation in my bedroom is a once in a blue moon occurrence. It happened the other evening at 10.45 when a good friend rang. She works in theatre so it was the only time she could call. I am deaf, I don't take calls. But this one was important. A friend of hers, aged just 30, had died that morning. She was upset, she needed to talk. I was able to be there for her. On the dot of 11pm, the email of complaint came through.

And through all of this in the recent weeks, there have been audible screaming matches coming from this neighbour's flat, my living room floor has shaken as the front door has been slammed in what I can only assume was in a fit of rage, the hallway is descending into further chaos. Bags of food are now stored by the door, the perfect welcome sign to vermin.

And I have put up with it all. I have been understanding that, according to her notes, she's going through a stressful time right now. I have even shhh'd my guests like a librarian to try and stop her from complaining further.

But the final straw came a few days ago when one morning, after a refreshing 7-hour sleep, I descended the communal staircase – on tiptoe – to find yet another note. This one stating that I'd woken her up in the early hours of the morning, when in fact I was fast asleep.

And at that moment I knew that I had to stop ignoring her and stick up for myself. And that is where we are on this Thankful Friday.

Yesterday, a politely worded letter telling her she is not to contact me again unless it is about urgent house matters, should have arrived by registered post.

I'm keen to keep it as formal as possible. I can't cope with the nasty scribbled notes on the staircase. I can't tolerate her 'one rule for me', which is living in complete silence, and 'one rule for her', which is screaming arguments, door slamming and leaving the hallway in state of squalor.

I'm exhausted and upset by it.

So what am I thankful for on this Friday you might be wondering? Well, actually it's the amazing and unwavering support of my friends and family, not to mention those who know me as Deafinitely Girly through this blog and on Twitter. From fantastic advice on what to do if the problem escalates to supportive hugs and comments to keep me going.

That is what I am thankful for on this very Thankful Friday.

So a massive thanks to everyone and I'm sure I will keep you all posted.