Deaf or daft?

Deaf

Tumbling world

fired up in anger,

flames burning

like Notre Dame

its holiness

rising in smoke

or burning bush

with unheard message.

Annie Elliott

With age, deafness becomes an increasing problem. As I grow older, I find  people have more difficulty in hearing me. They ask a question, I reply, and they ask, "Why did you say that?" They seem to think I am answering a question they didn't ask. Really, of course, I am answering the question I heard them ask, but it doesn't always match their memory. This is particularly true of Ann. Both she and I grew tired of me constantly asking, "What did you say?", so I've started to guess the question, and answer in a general way, and hope that will cover it.

Sometimes, I get away with this technique, but Ann does look puzzled sometimes. The biggest problem is when Ann brings something up and I'll answer, "I didn't know that! Why hadn't you told me?" and she will say, "I did tell you. I told you last week." Then I have a dilemma; I don't know if I didn't hear the first time, or if my memory is going.

One solution will be to get a hearing-aid, which I've resisted. My father had one, and my recollection is of us having to shout, "Dad, turn your hearing aid on!", or listening to a horrible feedback screech if it fell out. Now, however, I have the perfect excuse: no one can go for hearing tests during the lock-down.

This morning, I tackled another job that has waited for a few months: painting the kitchen door frame, which had become very grubby. The dogs feed in the kitchen, so although I cleaned it and rubbed it down some days ago, I intending to paint it at night once I'd put the dogs to bed. The trouble with that idea is, by that time I'm ready for bed myself. So this morning I woke early to a brilliant warm day and had the thing painted before the dogs got up. Clever, eh?

Doing something physical that requires no thought, it is fascinating how the mind drifts from one idle idea to another. As I painted, I found myself singing, "Bless this house," probably through an association with doors. That led to thoughts of my mother who, being from Lancashire, was an avid fan of Gracie Fields, a local lass made good. Mum listened to her as often as possible, drawing us in to share her liking. Not many know "Our Gracie" now, but one song of hers made an appearance in an advert recently: "...and it's the girl that makes the thing that holds the oil that oils the ring that works the thing-ummy-bob that's going to win the war," written in 1942 at the middle of the war, boosting the role of otherwise unnoted people in the war effort. Interestingly, the advert edited out any reference to war.