From your lips to my ears

Oh, China, for the gift of hearing again. Ordered just before Christmas for the royal sum of an imitation Gucci handbag – tens of thousands less than Malusi Gigaba’s Norma (remember her?) spent on her real deals – my hearing aids landed just after New Year.

And they worked – until this morning. Not because the only advertising lie I could find is that they are not “rechargeable”, unless they mean changing the minute battery is a recharge, didn’t you know?

Not because the initial screeching in my ear was unbearable until I realised I had to turn the volume down just a tad with the small screwdriver it comes with. Not even because I for days believed playing with the little aerial would “turn the sound my way” before discovering my “aerial” is really just a handle to handle such a small device.

It didn’t work simply because I forgot to grab that handle and put them in. I blame the rain for the traffic jam that made me nearly late for the meeting. And face it: that’s why I got them. You try and make head or tails from someone’s mumbling through a cloth mask and beard across the table with even one good ear and no lip-reading to help.

But that’s the beauty of my “aerials”: no lip-reading any more.

I can hear – when I have them in. Which I didn’t this morning. So I caught every fourth or 10th word on a prayer I could wing the rest. That went well, I thought after addressing the meeting for a full five minutes with my plan to
better a plan – until I saw the surprised looks.

“I just said that,” my boss mumbles. Oops. Let’s try my next very bright idea… Scribbled paper and another five minutes later, the room is stunned; every disbelieving eye turned on me.

“We’ve dealt with that just now. Didn’t you hear?”

No, I didn’t. Well swallow me whole, please, universe. I mumbled a “my brain’s a bit fried, you know?”

But I swear I heard one whisper: “She’s lost it… Touch of dementia, you think?”