The Scribbler: September 2006

Moldin' Up!

Since I was a little pup of a lad, I've been through the same routine.

Once a year (it used to be twice a year, but then I stopped growing except for the beer belly) I go to an NHS audiology clinic and get some lovely goo squirted in my ear (that's the blue, alien-like stuff) and get myself some new earmolds for my hearing aids.

Now, audiology clinics are rather funny places. For a start, a great number of their patients are, well, old. So what you get are multiple copies of 'Past Times', 'Bella' and even 'Knitters Monthly' in the waiting rooms. Then, even funnier, they CALL the names out. So you see all these old folk sitting there, not hearing the announcement, then sitting there a bit longer, happily knitting, then finally being tapped on the shoulder by a male nurse who should know better, but doesn't..!

Then things get even more ridiculous. I'm fed up of having beige, bog standard hearing aids, so I asked last time if I could have some of the other slick models on their walls. They even had a see through model. Or red, or blue...

But it turned out there were only three colours to choose from. Beige, brown or grey. "How come?" I asked. Well, apparently they'd done a survey of all their patients. "Who on earth chose grey?" I replied. "Er, the older patients, sir," said the young man. Go figure!

The other thing is that when they put the goo in your ear, you really can't hear a thing (even less than normal in my case) and yet the guy carries on talking to you...

Now, I got a bit lazy of late, in fact, I didn't get new ear molds made for a fair while. Reader, they got rather brown. Waxy. Yuk. But now I've got some lovely clear silicon replacements, which looks rather swish, as you can see below...

Lifesnaps # 47 - Rookie (feline) says: "thank god I'm not out there in the rain"

Random Scribble No. 29

Lifesnaps # 46 - Deafinitely Theatre workshop

What's a man of leisure to do of a Sunday?

London has parks to walk in, streets to glide through, and a million faces to look at and try and work out what they've got on their minds... and those are just three things!

The other thing you can do is something contructive. Although god knows, it's hard when you've had a couple of ales the night before.

Up I got circa 9am for a scriptwriting workshop with a difference. All the writers are deaf (including me, well, hard of hearing to be precise) and everyone has their own story to tell.

Being a thesbian (even if it is only at the weekends!) isn't all about being serious and 'arty' you know. You start off by throwing a tennis ball around randomly, then you play stick in the mud, just like you used to in the playground at school. I loved it, in a childish, immature, Scribbler way..!

Then we compared 'scenarios' and threw ideas around. We all hated each other's ideas really but tried to be as supportive as possible...

You guessed it... I'm kidding! Mostly...

Then we ended up improvising scenes from our work, which was amazing (not joking this time) because you get to see just where you're going wrong, and where the potential (if there is any!) of your scene lies.

So big up to the gang. We've all got to get writing, because there's a show of samples of our work in December, in Central London. Well worth getting up on a Sunday to work towards, methinks!

You can check out the company website by going to: http://www.deafinitelytheatre.co.uk/

The latest play, 'Dysfunction' is set to tour the country so check it out if you can. It's a compelling mixture of sign, voiceover, and even a bit of high-kicking dancing!

Closely Cropped

About the only way I know whether I've cut my hair quite right is by squinting in the reflection in the bathroom mirror and tilting my head either side to get a good view... or taking a photo of the back of my head... that's the Scribbler way.

I've been wearing my hair short for a good six months now, and I can give the phenomenon of having closely cropped hair a bit of a thumbs up... unless it resides on a woman, that is!

It's neat, requires little maintenance and tends to look remarkably clean (even when Mr S is a dirty stop out for weeks on end). In short, it's convenient, remarkably so.

Allowed to grow of its own accord, the Scribbler's hair can become independently curly, almost perm-like, much to the joy of his peers who enjoy nothing more than ridiculing the illustrious barnet.

When shaved, this scalp, almost fully visible with hair cut short, has the added bonus of scaring off any would-be trouble makers - allowing not only the man himself (who happens to be writing this) but also his entourage, free access to London's finest clubs and bars by virtue of gaining instant respect from similarly-cropped heavies who man the doors.

Which is neat indeed.