After waiting there for almost an hour after my allotted time, the nurse beckoned me in and shoved some telescope thing she could barely lift into my ear. Than after squeaking, retching and gulping a few times, she returned from the corner of the room to where she'd scuttled and with a pale face said: "You've got about half a ton of wax in your ear."
I resisted the impulse to kill her or say something flippant like: well it's a good job I made an appointment with you to have them syringed, then. Instead I asked her to get on with it.
Fifteen minutes later, her tiny groans of revulsion drowned out by the roaring and the very loud shrieks of my own agony, we were done. The noise of my heart was so loud that I firmly believe my ear canals now meet in the middle of my skull.
"You've still got skin down there," she said with disgust. Don't we all have skin down there? After once more forgoing the impulse to throttle her I asked if she could do something about it.
"No that's a different procedure - and it hurts."
"And that didn't?" My fists clenched for a moment hard enough to make the seat arms creak in alarm.
"And, anyway, that's another appointment. You'll have to wait a couple of weeks for that." But as her low murmurs of joy were already splitting my (skin encrusted) eardrums, I demurred. My ears hurt, my head hurts but once more I can hear.
I never realised before just how loud my computer was. And even caressing the keys on my keyboard is deafening enough to give me a headache.
Fat chance of me going back there again unless it's in a straight jacket.
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