Category Archives: concha

hear this

Right, now I feel really ill, yet here I am in work, what a fucking trooper/berk. I suppose a hangover doesn’t help, but really illness prevails.

However, I can hear. I can hear everything. The treatment I undertook yesterday afternoon was a sensation. Allow me to share…

By lunchtime yesterday the deafness in my right here had evolved from just being a fucking nuisance, it was starting to hurt; an ache in my jaw was slowly shifting into a isolated pain in the side of my head. At 3pm the black bitch and I raced across London as the day faded into night, we went through Battersea and over Lambeth bridge past Parliament, round Trafalgar Square and up the Charing Cross road. I still get a huge kick riding a motorcycle round the famed parts of this wonderful city; somehow it feels as if one is privileged, as if its not strictly allowed but personal permission has been granted. I parked up, passing a yelling Chris Evans oddly, second time I’ve seen him in a month, and made my way to the surgery.

An Australian woman met me and went through the procedure; she pretty much assured me that she could resolve the hearing issue. A speculum was placed in my ear and I laid down on a couch. She popped in some drops and using a tiny vacuum began to suck the muck out of my head. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, actually at times it was quite uncomfortable, this was largely because the ‘oh, gracious’ comment from the Australian woman derived from the appalling state of my log ‘oles and the removal of the wax wasn’t as straightforward as it first appeared. The wax had become attached to the skin inside my ear; she needed forceps to detach the stuff, which was apparently squishing my eardrum (which is subsequently bruised) before she could suck it out. The whooshing sound in my ear would periodically stop as the vacuum became blocked with a large portion of cerumen, this was the painful part as it was glued to the inside of my head. After a good 5 minutes there was this immense *pop* and all of a sudden I could hear car doors shutting on Cavendish Square 3 floors below through a closed window. The lump of wax she removed was the size of a marrowfat pea, one of two apparently though the first one had disintegrated. I nearly vomited on her lap.

The procedure was repeated on my ‘good’ ear which it transpired was nearly as bad; she removed a (regular) pea sized ball of cerumen which I was apparently ‘very old’. I asked her how I could avoid this sort of thing in the future, her advice was explicit, don’t put anything in your ear, wipe the concha periodically with a tissue but that’s that. The treatment cost £50 but for some reason the nice lady charged me half that amount, no idea why. I suspect it was because I was wearing biker clothes, leather trousers and motorcycle boots are very sexy, and she wanted to see my penis.

I met up with Frank for a pint later on, oh the luxury of being about to converse without straining or grinning inanely at unheard comments, before returning home to make dinner for Myfwt and I, another sausage casserole, this one better than the last, largely because I could eat it with hearing it being masticated and swallowed and dropping into my stomach.

Interpol tonight, but before all that some more Paul Kaye.

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