No, seriously, you will. If you ever see me, sat in the middle of a conversation, looking absolutely bamboozled, it’s probably because I can’t hear a damned thing.
Half the time I was at Edge Lit the other weekend must have been spent struggling to keep up with conversations. Don’t get me wrong, I like the Quad, Derby’s current venue of choice for the discerning genre boy (& girl), but as Ian Sales pointed out, sound bounces off the bare surfaces rather than being absorbed by the sofas that the Quad used to have. I’m used to being selectively deaf on occasion, but I’ve started to notice that when there’s more than one sound source in the room, I’m having trouble distinguishing them.
I have only myself to blame, however: I spent the best part of a decade standing in the front rows at the Leadmill, having my ears blown to pieces by terrible rock bands. These days you’ll usually find me in a pub that has no music, no TV, and (preferably) no customers. At least that way I can hear myself think.
So, while it’s not so bad that I need hearing aids (yet), you’ll have to speak up.
Especially if you’re asking me to go to the bar, of course.