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Monday, September 15, 2014


This is day two in my journey of living life without a voice, cruelly struck dumb in the prime of my life and I’ve chosen to write a little Cinquain poem about it for your entertainment…


Strangled Chook

Weird creaky sounds

Emitting from inflamed itchypods


I’ve never had Laryngitis before which is strange because I tend to use my voice a lot and if you’re going to get sick usually the thing you use the most is the first to go.

I spent today in bed, writing my last will and testament and pondering the meaning of my melancholic life whilst attempting to watch the midday movie, unable to yell critical abuse at the terrible actors and incapacitated to the point where the dogs took advantage of my inability to shout at them to shut the hell up with their incessant barking.

Sometimes I hate my dogs.

But then it struck me… what if my dulcet tones never return? What if I remain a mute? A voiceless old woman, never again able to work as a teacher, sing happy birthday to my grandchildren, perform Karaoke or order McDonalds at the drive through?

I’d never be able to chatter inanely to husband, Scotto, at the climax of the Fast and Furious movie he’s watching, or answer the checkout chick at Coles when she asks me how I’m going today.

I’d have to carry signs with me everywhere saying, “Good Thanks!” or “Great! How are you?”

Scotto 'says' my dearth of vocal tone is cute. He keeps making me do Marge Simpson and Cookie Monster quotes and then he laughs and laughs and laughs.

But I think he might be taking advantage of his brief reprieve from the continual whine in his ear day in day out. He’s going to the movies tomorrow night to see Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with our mate O’Reilly because he reckons I need to spend more time alone to rest my vocal cords.

I’m thinking of designing a sign just for him that says,

Should I let him go?