Sunday afternoon – and this being Whitby in August, the Co-op superstore was seething with the [IQ<100] half of humanity. A decrepit old couple who must have been all of 20 years younger than me were standing like Doctor Who’s Weeping Angels blocking the way to the cheese fridge.

I reached between them and extracted my target cheese. This brought them to life and they moved off like grazing cattle.

A tenuous thread of muttered conversation trickled back to me as I studied my shopping list for the next item:

“Rude man.”

“Wha…?”

“He could’ve said excuse me.”

I replied in my mind: you’re the rude ones, setting up camp in front of my fridge. Then it occurred to me – the couple were now at least 10 yards away. A month ago I wouldn’t have been able to hear them.

So my new hearing aids were actually doing something for me. I was so grateful to the dear lady for furnishing me with clear evidence of the fact. Though it seems their benefit hadn’t yet trickled down to soften my impatience with generic humanity.

But one thing’s for sure. “Out of earshot” has acquired a whole new meaning for me.