It was a classic case of the rules changing.
A couple of days previously, I had sat in this very same public house with four friends. The lounge was deserted but for ourselves, and everyone waited their turn to talk. The conversation buzzed unabated all night and nobody knew that I was partially deaf.
But now it was Friday night and we were in the bar. A smattering of farmers sipping a well earned pint suddenly turned into a busy room. I was lip-reading with my head filled with disorientating white noise. It was hard work.
I finally mentioned this to my hosts. They had vaguely known that I did have a hearing impairment, but we'd never been in a situation where it came to the fore. They realized now and, after some discussion, grasped the reality of my discomfort.
As two people who pride themselves on their hospitality, I could see that this was embarrassing for them. That made it embarrassing for me. We left after we'd finished our drinks, with me feeling like I'd ruined their evening.
Fast forward a week to my auntie's front room. Recently widowed, she's taken to leaving the television on at all times. It's the dreaded background noise, which so many stereo hearing people seem unable (and unwilling) to do without.
It's not that my auntie doesn't know about my deafness. She used to routinely switch the radio off, when I walked through the door. But the television stayed on, even after we and my mother were installed on the settees, cradling our cups of tea.
While the conversation ensued between my auntie and my mother, I drifted away inside my own head. I admired the new decor of the flat and vaguely pondered Wizzley articles. Then all eyes were upon me. I'd patently been asked a question.
I wasn't looking. I wasn't ready. I asked for it to be repeated again. Now my mother spoke up, asking for the television to be switched off. My auntie complied immediately, frowning as she did so. Whether at her own lack of awareness or the request itself, I didn't know.
"Why can't you get a hearing aid?" She demanded suddenly. Ah! The latter then.
"Because it wouldn't do any good. My cochlear is rotten."
The whole conversation then turned to my deafness. Sharp focus upon it. I had the sense that this was all somehow my fault. In the realm of the normal, I was being wantonly and deliberately abnormal.
I was glad when they switched to discussing how to arrange the garden.
One day later, my car has been in for its MOT and the mechanic has delivered it back to my front door. He's trying to tell me something. I think he said that my car has dangerous levels of emissions, which is horrifying to an old hippy like me.
Behind us, the television is blaring. I gasp a question about fixing it at the mechanic, who looks confused. Frustration gets the better of me and I snatch up the television's remote control and switch the blasted thing off.
All around the room are the raised eyebrows of people wishing to watch the tennis at Wimbledon. The mechanic grimaces too. Tension is rife in the air. I'm a little too sharp as I ask, "What's causing my car to have high emissions? Can it be fixed?"
He tells me, now probably for the third time, that there's been a change in the law requiring them to test emissions. Mine passed with flying colors. It was on zero percent.
The mechanic seemed like he couldn't wait to leave. My father pressed for me to just pay him the money, so he could get on. Unspoken was the utter censure in everyone's body language. I had caused a scene.
Three scenarios here. All very real; all very possible. This is the reality for someone deaf in one ear bringing that to the attention of the rest of the world. It's worth bearing in mind, when you ponder the query that I found in my analytics. It had led somebody to one of my Wizzley pages.