The revelation that there’s actually a medical condition relating to a hatred of noise is a boost for me.
Research published in the Journal of Neuroscience – perfect bedtime reading for insomniacs – suggests that misophonia is caused by a “supersensitised” brain condition. This gives sufferers intense and involuntary reactions to certain sounds made by others, including chewing, speaking or even breathing.
I recognise all these symptoms and more, having an aversion to nails on a blackboard, squeaky balloons, anyone slurping Rice Krispies or music by Little Mix. That’s why I live in remote, rural Fyne Place, but even here blissful silence is rare.
It would be ungallant to pinpoint the source of the constant cacophony I suffer, but forget gallantry. It’s Mrs F.
She can’t close a door without slamming it, can’t put down a cup without hammering it and her voice can regularly emulate a pneumatic drill.
Some years ago, we had friends round for a meal. We were in the lounge enjoying a preprandial aperitif when she retired to the kitchen, heralding a characteristic crashing of baking trays and walloping of work surfaces that sounded like percussionist Evelyn Glennie rehearsing an experimental work on a bad day.
One of our guests, fearing a dreadful accident, dashed through to see she was OK. He, and she, were suitably embarrassed when the reality was revealed.
I sensed trouble ahead this week when she approached me with a look that was as welcome as a Martin Bashir bank statement or a mini-break in Belarus. “I need to get away,” she said. My heart jumped. Was she planning a solo trek from Muckle Flugga to Machu Picchu, a month in Sule Skerry lighthouse, joining a silent religious order or heading for a spell of solitude on a Highland mountain?
No such luck. She insisted we should head off together for the night in our small campervan.
Ordinarily this is no hardship. We have been dedicated staycationers all our lives. We live in the world’s most beautiful country, aren’t idle sun-worshippers and so nothing betters a Scottish holiday.
But for misophonics, sharing a wee tin box with a lovely lass who can nevertheless drown out the Bon-Accord Silver Band is tough. There’s no hiding place.
No matter, all went well and we arrived at a secluded west-coast site with welcoming hosts and a wonderful view. Well, it would have been wonderful were it not for the low cloud, belting rain, gusty winds and temperatures that would have pleased a penguin.
Safely parked up for the night, I was eagerly anticipating a quiet G&T, provided the tonic didn’t fizz too loudly. I really fancy trying the Balmoral Estate’s exciting new Ballochbuie gin, but at £60 a bottle I’m stuck with supermarket brands.
First, though, I needed to sample the site’s sanitary facilities. It was quite a long walk in the pouring rain but there was a shock in store. I’d heard the toilet block needed painting, but didn’t realise it wasn’t properly built yet. The walls of the tiny single loo/shower were still to be completed and most alarming of all, the outside door didn’t fit properly and couldn’t be closed firmly.
Frustratingly, my legs weren’t long enough to reach it from a sedentary position and hold it shut lest I risked sliding to a shockingly exposed trouserless heap on the floor.
The solution came to me in another flash; make a noise to alert other intended users that the facility was occupied. But what noise to choose?
Whistling seemed obvious, but I’m no use at it. Singing would sound suspicious and, anyway, what song to sing?
Coughing constantly in this Covid climate would clear the campsite. Any other noises might be disregarded as perfectly normal or prompt someone to call a doctor.
I decided to postpone my plans and hang on until we left next morning. I now had not only a “supersensitised” brain but a backside to match.
Mrs F’s noisy schadenfreude merged with rain battering on the roof all day and a subsequent sleepless night when I was scared to sneeze. It seems I suffer not only from misophonia but from Mrs Ophonia, too.
Returning home was a relief, in more ways than one.
