Poet on a Hill

Friday, 1 January 2010


Depends Which Side of the Trumpet You’re On …

I woke up in the morning with my ears full of wax.
I couldn’t hear. I was deaf. I usually only feel this miserable on birthdays.

I went to the surgery but missed my turn because I didn’t hear the doctor call my name.

Eventually I got to see her. ‘I’m deaf,’ I told her.

She looked in my head. ‘It’s wax,’ she diagnosed, thrusting her face into mine and using exaggerated mouth movements, not sure if I was deaf … or daft.

‘You’re having me on,’ I told her.

‘No. It’s definitely wax,’ she’s on top of this one. ‘But don’t worry, wax is a sign of good health.’ Her lips stretch to the limit, like a fat girl’s garter, ‘so you’re very lucky, really.’

My hand makes an ear trumpet. ‘Eh …?! What …?!’