I’m going to forget about being deaf now cos I’m bored with it.  There’s nothing else I can do apart from carrying on with the drops.  I have to take pain killers too, or I don’t sleep. On the plus side, Mark and I are having some interesting written conversations, including this one:






Oh, right!




For a translation, see the Two Ronnie’s sketch:


So: up to now I’ve tried olive oil, olive oil and bicarb, bicarb and glycerine, Otex, ear candles, hot water bottles and lots of swearing and hopping about.  At the moment I’m trying to ward off the moment when I take the last lot of paracetamol for today by groaning into a hot water bottle: I never thought I’d get one of those out before next winter.  I am not happy that it takes so long to get your ears syringed, or that the walk-in centre at the Royal told me they didn’t do it when apparently they did someone else’s ears a few weeks ago: I am also not happy that the walk-in centre in town is not longer a walk-in centre but a GP’s surgery with receptionists who don’t appear to give a toss.  I am not happy.

However, in spite of all this I have managed 2,500 words of the memoir, so that’s on course; also the novel which needs to be sent off at the end of July.  And my son has helpfully lent me his headphones; so that’s all good.

Kirk out