There are many reasons why a chap might be found crawling across the floor of his London club of an evening. In my case, I was in search of a digital hearing aid that had escaped from my right aural orifice. On the busy pattern of an Asian rug, I had little hope of seeing something designed to be camouflaged behind the ear and resembling a tiny grey maggot. I gave up and ordered another drink.
I learnt to shoot aged about 10 at my father’s elbow in an era when seeing a gent in ear defenders was as rare as seeing one using an over and under or wearing brown shoes in London. It never occurred to my father to wear his tin hat in the war — unless it was raining quite hard — and in the same way he rarely bothered to plug his ears when shooting. His hearing was heavily compromised anyway after a close shave with a German shell.
It was only in my thirties that rudimentary ear protection appeared in the gun line and it took me until my mid forties to take the hint. As is the norm for a right-handed shot, the damage has been done to my left ear, the one closer to the muzzle. I have tinnitus and, until a visit to an audiologist, any damsel with a decorously sotto voce tone seated to my left at dinner had a hellish evening. Things must have been bad as I began to long for the sonorous Lady Bracknells of this world.
At the time of writing, there is no word of my maggot being found. Most likely, it is in the club Dyson. I’m loath to pay £1,000 for another — possibly £2,000 if, as seems likely, the manufacturers have stitched it up so they can only be bought in pairs. My right ear is less impaired, but crowded rooms are challenging.
I have resorted to the use of my father’s old hunting horn as an ear trumpet. It looks a trifle odd, but it works. Its use during meals requires one to be nifty at eating only with the left hand. With the parlous state of hunting, there must be thousands of these things lying around looking for a new purpose.
They may be expensive, but digital hearing aids are miniaturised wonders of science, with settings for crowds or one-to-one. A previous version had a third setting that played me birdsong, elegantly designed as alternative listening during moments when my wife was reading the riot act. When you think back to the chunky devices of yesteryear, which looked as if you had a prawn curled behind your ear, you feel blessed.
The late Lord Longford, I am assured, insulted his wife’s cooking by not noticing he had eaten his hearing aid after it landed in a plate of conchiglione pasta she had served him. Amplified sounds from the stomach region alerted her. His teeth must have been good. Further back, deaf John VI of Portugal built a throne with a large receiving apparatus under the seat. In the event of his majesty feasting on that Iberian delicacy favas escoadas, the positioning of this receiver must have compromised the regal dignity.
My father made no concessions to deafness, although his favoured method of entertainment remained a cocktail party. Unable to hear any of his guests, he would give a uniform hearty roar of laughter at whatever they said. Those who had mentioned a death in the family were surprised at this reaction. Others took it as a refreshing attitude to mortality.
Joe Gibbs is a farmer, writer and columnist for Country Life who lives at Belladrum in the Highlands. He is also the founder of the Tartan Heart Festival
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