Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 27 June 2025, 13:10
Ten days in hospital. That’s enough to make anyone long for a cave in the Highlands, or at least a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
Don’t get me wrong. The NHS staff are wonderful, saints, if you don’t mind me saying. But the challenge isn’t just the illness, it’s the endless noise. Groans in the night, alarms pinging like a malfunctioning pinball machine, and televisions blaring mind-numbing chat shows and repeats of Bonanza that could erode your will to live faster than the illness itself. It seems every patient is tuned in to the same channel, hypnotised by daytime soaps where everyone shouts, cries, or throws fits of anger. Why do they expose themselves to this stuff. Is life not bad enough without action replays at leisure time?
I remember thinking, not for the first time: Is peace and quiet too much to ask for when you’re unwell? My idea of healing involves being pain-free and reading a good book in silence.
The same plea rises in me when I board a flight. Please, no hen nights. No lads on tour. Let me sit beside someone who reads—someone who appreciates silence as an art form.
Once, I dared to hope. I was flying somewhere peaceful (or so I thought), and there they were—The Over 50s women after divorce club. Don’t be fooled by the name. I thought I’d dodged a bullet. “At last,” I told myself, But alas, they were a force to be reckoned with. Loud, swearing, knocking back miniature gin bottles like it was Blackpool on a Friday night. And the steward? Instead of calming them down, he joined in—winding them up further, rewarding their air bound riot with extra snacks and applause.
And there I was, clutching my book, praying for a parachute.
One day—yes, one day—I’ll invest in those blessed noise-cancelling headphones. I may not have peace on Earth, but at least I’ll have it in my ears. But here I am, back in my inner sanctum, in my comfortable chair in silence.
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
The blessed Noise-cancelling Headphones
Ten days in hospital. That’s enough to make anyone long for a cave in the Highlands, or at least a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
Don’t get me wrong. The NHS staff are wonderful, saints, if you don’t mind me saying. But the challenge isn’t just the illness, it’s the endless noise. Groans in the night, alarms pinging like a malfunctioning pinball machine, and televisions blaring mind-numbing chat shows and repeats of Bonanza that could erode your will to live faster than the illness itself. It seems every patient is tuned in to the same channel, hypnotised by daytime soaps where everyone shouts, cries, or throws fits of anger. Why do they expose themselves to this stuff. Is life not bad enough without action replays at leisure time?
I remember thinking, not for the first time: Is peace and quiet too much to ask for when you’re unwell? My idea of healing involves being pain-free and reading a good book in silence.
The same plea rises in me when I board a flight. Please, no hen nights. No lads on tour. Let me sit beside someone who reads—someone who appreciates silence as an art form.
Once, I dared to hope. I was flying somewhere peaceful (or so I thought), and there they were—The Over 50s women after divorce club. Don’t be fooled by the name. I thought I’d dodged a bullet. “At last,” I told myself, But alas, they were a force to be reckoned with. Loud, swearing, knocking back miniature gin bottles like it was Blackpool on a Friday night. And the steward? Instead of calming them down, he joined in—winding them up further, rewarding their air bound riot with extra snacks and applause.
And there I was, clutching my book, praying for a parachute.
One day—yes, one day—I’ll invest in those blessed noise-cancelling headphones. I may not have peace on Earth, but at least I’ll have it in my ears. But here I am, back in my inner sanctum, in my comfortable chair in silence.
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot