The world thinks I'm mad, rude and eccentric... finally I can tell you why

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I received some bad news two weeks ago. After years of refusing to accept I had a problem with my hearing, I finally decided to go to a clinic and find out the worst, which is that I have, at best, 30 per cent hearing in each ear.

It was weird, hearing (if that’s the right word) that I am officially disabled or impaired.

But I suppose I can at last tell people I am hard of hearing – which hopefully they will understand and make allowances for – rather than doing what I have been doing up until now, which is to try to appear normal.

Liz Jones

Liz Jones said her hearing is so bad she wouldn't hear if someone broke into her house - but her dog would soon alert her

This has only made people – friends, colleagues on the phone, shop assistants and so on – think I am merely mad, rude or eccentric.

I first noticed I had a problem at school. I could barely follow what the teachers were saying, although they never seemed to notice.

I avoided parties and school discos because I could never join in the conversation. I would just stand there looking awkward.

These days I don’t accept invitations to dinner parties – too many voices at once means I’m in a whirring sea of noise (and I’ve made too many inappropriate responses in the past to ever be invited again anyway).

   

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I am sure my lack of ease in social situations had a great deal to do with my dire lack of boyfriends but, oddly, my husband never really knew I was deaf or asked me about it.

He just put the fact that I was on a constant state of ‘red alert’ in case someone directed a question at me down to my being highly strung and nervous. (To my mortification, when I watch my wedding video, at the point where I have to respond I can be heard coming out with a very loud ‘Eh?’).

Even close friends have given up inviting me anywhere, so uninteractive is my company. I recently went to a concert with my friend Fiona, only to have her mistake my yawning and staring into space for boredom, when in fact I couldn’t catch a single lyric.

At work, I never told anyone about my lack of hearing but merely learned techniques to disguise my shortcomings.

When  I became editor of a magazine, my long-suffering PA, Kerry, became my ‘ears’, sitting next to me in meetings, translating what was going on.

When I went to work as a features editor on a daily newspaper, I took her with me, although she was barred from accompanying me into morning ideas conference, which meant I was always sweating with panic in case I missed something, or didn’t do later what I had just been asked.

Although part of my job is to interview celebrities (for which you would think a pair of properly functioning ears essential) the fact I lean in so close and come across as so inept and inattentive gives me a sort of Lieutenant Columbo quality; plus I have a bat-like assistant who transcribes all my tapes for me.

Sometimes at work someone will say something to me and I will just not acknowledge them, which has given me a reputation for being both ‘difficult’ and ‘aloof’.

Once, I caught my colleague Harriet, on seeing someone fail to catch my attention, mouth elaborately to them: ‘She can’t hear you. You have to stand right in front of her,’ and I was so embarrassed I started to cry.

Over the years, I have learned to cope. I tend to stare very hard at people’s faces and lip-read. Sometimes, though, I feel incredibly vulnerable. Riding my horse down a lane, for example, I am unable to hear a car or tractor coming up behind us, although my little mare will endeavour to let me know by twiddling her great big ears.

If someone were to break into my house in the middle of the night, I would not hear them. Although I now have a dog, who kindly comes and wags at me if someone knocks at the door, I’m not sure I would hear him barking downstairs.

But now that I have had my deafness diagnosed I am being more open about it – using subtitles when watching films, for example, which is great because for the first time I understand what is going on in the plot.

I have never been confident on the phone, and so email and texting have been a lifeline, making me feel, and come across, as much more normal and outgoing.

There are advantages to being deaf, too. In London, if a party was going on next door or people in Hackney were shooting each other, I would be blissfully unaware. When people complain about a baby wailing on a plane, I smile benignly.

Why am I writing about this now? Not for sympathy, not to enrol myself in some sort of ‘disability’ club, but to acknowledge, if it helps anyone in a similar situation, that sometimes a weakness can make you stronger.

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