Noise is a fact of life. We become so accustomed to it that we sometimes notice it more when it’s gone. After moving from a house just around the corner from a busy traffic intersection, I was astounded to discover that I was having trouble sleeping at my new home because it was simply too quiet.
I have moved again since that time, and had to readjust to a noisy street, the occasional train, and just recently a confused rooster who likes to welcome dawn 1½ hours ahead of time. While in the chicken world he may be considered a bit of an enthusiastic go-getter, in the human world I’m sure the rooster's close neighbours consider him to be a likely candidate for Sunday roast.
For a few months at my previous home, I’m sure the neighbours there wanted to roast me alive whenever I used the washing machine. The poor appliance must have caught some nasty virus because it soon developed a wheeze that turned into a death rattle. Finally, on its death-bed (which endured for its final two months), it developed a full-on roar during its spin cycle that sounded somewhat like a rocket taking off in our garage. I’m surprised that we didn’t get a call from Cape Canaveral.
I must admit I was a little embarrassed about the death-throes of the washing machine, but not as much as I was by a pair of lace-up work shoes I purchased one time.
Though the shoes weren’t fancy or the latest in fashion, they looked very practical and long-lasting and were reduced in price. I thought I had a bargain. When I finally wore them to work, I discovered why these particular shoes had been so cheap. After about 5 minutes, an air-pocket built up under the inner sole, and from that moment on, every time I took a step with my right foot, the shoe would emit a rather startling raspberry sound that unfortunately sounded like someone breaking wind.
I wore those shoes just once, and for some reason, though I kindly offered to my friends free of charge, nobody would take them off my hands.
But possibly the weirdest sound you can hear me making lately is a squeak when I move my arms. No, it’s not old joints that need oiling, thank you very much, rather that I have an unusually noisy bra. Strange isn’t it?
Unfortunately I like to use my hands a lot when I speak, and there’s no logical explanation for what sounds like a mouse hiding beneath each of my armpits.
Whenever I see a quizzical look coming over someone’s face as I speak, I have to remember to clasp my hands together and hope my listener won’t realise that the sound is coming from me.
I guess it could be much worse – imagine if all of those noises got mixed up together: I could have a pair of shoes that sounded like a rocket taking off, or a bra that crows when I talk. ©
I have moved again since that time, and had to readjust to a noisy street, the occasional train, and just recently a confused rooster who likes to welcome dawn 1½ hours ahead of time. While in the chicken world he may be considered a bit of an enthusiastic go-getter, in the human world I’m sure the rooster's close neighbours consider him to be a likely candidate for Sunday roast.
I must admit I was a little embarrassed about the death-throes of the washing machine, but not as much as I was by a pair of lace-up work shoes I purchased one time.
I wore those shoes just once, and for some reason, though I kindly offered to my friends free of charge, nobody would take them off my hands.
But possibly the weirdest sound you can hear me making lately is a squeak when I move my arms. No, it’s not old joints that need oiling, thank you very much, rather that I have an unusually noisy bra. Strange isn’t it?
Unfortunately I like to use my hands a lot when I speak, and there’s no logical explanation for what sounds like a mouse hiding beneath each of my armpits.
I guess it could be much worse – imagine if all of those noises got mixed up together: I could have a pair of shoes that sounded like a rocket taking off, or a bra that crows when I talk. ©
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