Croak, squeek.

Well. I must say that sympathy for the tragic loss of my voice over the last couple of days has been thin on the ground.

Waking up yesterday morning feeling like some invisible assailant had set about my throat with a cheese grater I could manage no more than a whisper. Far from being sympathetic, responses have tended to be along the lines of a smile and a look as if to say “Aaah, that’s better, I wonder how long we’ve got before she’s back to full volume?”

So. I know you’re dying to ask. Did  I lose my voice and end up with a husky, Lauren Bacall style voice or even a sexy, breathy and girly  one  like Marylin Monroe?

Did I hell.

When I did manage to raise it above  a whisper it decided to come out sounding like the  breaking voice of an adolescent toad after a night on the beer. “Croak. Widdup. Squeeeek. Croak Wheeze. Croak.”

Not really the effect I was after when I phoned a supplier  to complain. Complaints lose a certain gravitas when the best you can manage by way of sounding affronted is a whole range of sounds,  none of which sound like any  language known to man and  delivered at a volume level barely above a whisper.

Even Mrs Woofy took full advantage of the fact that I wasn’t able to shout and made a bid for freedom. Iinstead of coming back as directed when I whispered and croaked at her. She just sat and looked at me quizzically for a second before legging it in the opposite direction, leaving me to run after her, flailing my arms and cursing at full volume, safe in the knowledge that I wasn’t going to offend any old ladies with my liberal use of good old Anglo Saxon.

The good part of all this is that I sound far worse than I actually am. I feel as fit as a butcher’s dog and had no trouble keeping up with Mrs Woofy at agility class last night. It’s a good job we do most of the directing with hand signals though or it could all  have been a bit messy.

You’ll be glad to know that my vocal chords are already on the road to recovery, full volume will be resumed any day now.


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