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Let me start by saying there's nothing funny about going deaf.

Not being able to hear the voices of loved ones, or the symphonies of Mozart, or a robin in the spring is a sad thing indeed. And yet, speaking as a man whose ears are failing him, I have to say it can also take you to a world of unexpected whimsy.

Those close to me probably wouldn't understand. They'd look at me with a mixture of anger and disbelief. How could I blame them? There's nothing enjoyable about having to repeat a question or a comment a half-dozen times. It goes well beyond the boundaries of annoying.

Just ask my wife. In her view, waterboarding would be preferable to my endless repetitions of "pardon?", "say again?", "would you mind repeating that?" She's recently taken to giving up the fight altogether, retreating to an exasperated "never mind," or the slightly harsher "forget it!"

I, too, have surrendered some territory. No longer do I tell her she speaks softly (even though she does). That argument fell apart once I realized everyone was speaking softly. It became obvious even to me that the common denominator was not their collective vocal cords. It was my eardrums.

And then there are the hard-to-dismiss results of two hearing tests. The first one was more than a decade ago, at my wife's insistence. Yes, she has suffered that long.

The early signs were subtle. I didn't hear the oven timer going off, which was a problem when I'd promised to take out a cake while she got ready for guests.

Then there was the morning we were listening to the radio as a naturalist proudly introduced his recordings of songbirds. "They should apologize," I said, after several seconds of dead air.

"Why?" my wife replied, puzzled.

"Well there's something wrong with the playback equipment."

"You can't hear that?" she asked.

Uh-oh. The first hearing test came shortly thereafter. I sat in a booth wearing a set of headphones and holding a button. The technician said she would play a series of tones and I was to press the button as soon as I heard them.

I sat there for five minutes wondering when she would start. Turned out she had. Five minutes before.

She'd begun with high-pitched tones. The verdict was a 20-per-cent hearing loss in the upper registry.

Too much Led Zeppelin in my youth? Not wearing ear protectors for that summer job in the lumberyard? Your guess is as good as mine.

The problem was particularly evident when it came to the human voice. At a crowded cocktail party, all I would hear was a low murmur. Female voices were most challenging. If I was talking with a woman, I would have to lean so far toward her mouth that I was afraid she'd think I was peeking down her blouse.

So I'd stand back and nod, never knowing to what I was agreeing. The earth is flat? Sarah Palin is a candidate for a Nobel? A Stanley Cup for the Leafs is a slam dunk? Not a good situation.

A few years ago, I was invited to participate in an experiment at a Toronto hospital for a study on hearing loss in various age groups. The results didn't just confirm the first test. They indicated I'd got worse. At my wife's urging, I asked the doctor whether I should get a hearing aid. No, he said, it would only amplify ambient sound and would not help me distinguish different ranges. At least I think that's what he said.

Which brings me to the whimsy: the classic misunderstanding employed by every comedy writer from Shakespeare to the Marx Brothers. Someone says something, the listener hears something entirely different and hilarity ensues. I've had many such incidents since my ears began to betray me.

One morning, my wife and I were out walking. It was a bright day in early spring, and my wife said she'd been thinking about buying a pair of Queen Mother pants.

Now I'm hardly a fashionista, but the existence of a clothing style based on the Queen Mum and her penchant for large floral prints and sensible shoes intrigued me. Not to mention that in all the photos I'd ever seen of the Royal Family, not once had I caught the Queen Mum in slacks.

"What are Queen Mother pants?" I asked.

"What are you talking about?" my wife replied.

"You just said you're thinking about buying a pair of Queen Mother pants," I reminded her.

"I said cream-coloured pants!"

It was all a bit of a laugh. Until the incidents became more frequent.

My wife and I were playing cards with another couple when they mentioned that a friend of theirs, a successful lawyer, also happened to be a master bricklayer.

Needless to say, I was curious to know why a man who'd worked his way through law school and established a flourishing practice should find it necessary to learn the fine art of masonry. "Why would he want to be a master bricklayer?" I asked.

My fellow card players looked at me blankly. "He's a master bridge player!" they said.

Perhaps it's time to reconsider the hearing aid idea. Maybe it will improve things. My wife certainly hopes so. But I can't help thinking of what I would be giving up.

Not everyone lives in a world that boasts a bricklaying lawyer and Queen Mother pants.

Paul Harrington lives in Toronto.

Illustration by Larry Humber.