The returned emigrant was hard of hearing. His brother asked him if he ever had the problem checked.
“Indeed, I did,” he said. “I saw a top specialist in Harley Street. Mind you, it was a strange encounter. It went like this.”
When I walked into the consulting rooms, the doctor said, “What’s the problem?” and he cupped his ear with his hand for my reply.
“I am getting deaf,” I said.
“Speak up and enunciate your words clearly,” said the doctor.
I repeated myself in a louder tone. He reached across the desk, shook my hand and said, “Join the club. How did it happen?”
I replied with a question to him, “Can I ask how it happened to you?”
He put his left arm out straight and, with the right hand crooked the index finger. “Shooting guns and you?” he asked.
“Mine was from building tunnels,” I said.
“Building funnels! How interesting. At Harland and Wolff, I presume,” he replied.
“No, I said tunnels, as in the Blackwall Tunnel.”
“I never use them,” said the doctor. “Claustrophobia, don’t you know – will have to get something done about it. Should I see a trickcyclist, do you think?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” I said.
The specialist wrote something on his notepad, looked up and said, “You can hear well enough for a man of your age,” adding “Well, that will be that. Good afternoon to you.”
The specialist stood up and extended his hand.
“But Doctor, I also have a ringing in one ear.”
“That is called tinnitus,” he said. “Don’t worry, you will soon have it in both ears.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“You will adjust to it in time,” said the specialist.
“Oh, by the way, you can pay my secretary on your way out.”
I pretended I didn’t hear him.