Ear Far FAQ

 

On the morning my ear fell off, I got straight on the Internet.

 

"'Ear Far Syndrome'," I read. "'When one or more ears inexplicably falls off and ends up somewhere else.'"

 

Hmm, I thought and clicked on the FAQs...

 

Q. Am I alone?

A. No. As you are reading this, approximately twelve other people will also be suffering from 'Ear Far Syndrome'.

 

I clicked on another question...

 

Q. Where is/are my ear(s)?

A. Bugger knows.

 

Helpful.

 

I clicked on the chatroom. I chose the username 'EARWAX'. I started to type...

 

EARWAX: hello...?

 

After one minute and twenty-four seconds, someone else entered the chatroom...

 

EAREAR: Greetings, EARWAX.

EARWAX: hi earear! wanna chat?

EAREAR: No.

 

(oh)

 

EARWAX: y u in chatroom then? :/

 

After twenty-nine seconds, during which time I thought EAREAR had gone off to make a cup of tea or something, another message flashed on the screen...

 

EAREAR: Do you want to know where your ear is?

EARWAX: sure

EAREAR: Meet me at the pub in sixteen minutes.

 

EAREAR logged off.

 

 

 

Have I mentioned how I knew that someone hadn't just slipped into my bedroom at night, very carefully chopped off my ear and dumped it unceremoniously into a waste receptacle? The answer is... I could still hear! You hear (pardon the pun) about people with phantom limbs... well I had a phantom ear. It seems that I could hear whatever was going on around my actual (missing) ear, just a sort of vague hum of activity and murmured voices, which was why, when I entered the pub, I could hear the pub.

 

("How did you know which pub to go to?" I hear (not literally) you ask; well I went to the Giggling Salamander, the nearest pub to my house - I mean what else could I do?)

 

I entered the Giggling Salamander and I could hear, with my phantom ear, what I could hear with my other ear. If you see what I mean. Which was strange. It did tell me, however, that my missing ear was somewhere in the pub. By an act of instinctive triangulation, I was drawn to a dark and shadowy booth in the corner. In that booth sat a man.

 

"EARWAX," said the man. A statement, not a question.

 

"Yes..." I said (although the man had not asked a question, I felt that I needed to respond).

 

"Sit," said the man.

 

I will explain at this point that the man spoke in a voice that was not so much gravelly, more that it had been rinsed with bleach, passed through a mangle a couple of times and hung out to dry in a desert of Mars.

 

I sat.

 

The man indicated the pint glass of brown frothy liquid on the table, which I picked up and tentatively rose to my lips. As I took a sip (of Old Rat's Vomit, if the discernment of my taste buds is to be trusted), I took in the sight before me:

 

A dirty grey beard. Leathery skin. Gnarly old hands, in which were clasped a box. Ornate, I supposed, although I couldn't make out any of the symbols or what-have-you thereupon.

 

"What's... um... in the box?" I said.

 

"Finish your drink," said EAREAR.

 

I have never been much of a fan of Old Rat's Vomit, but I knew when to do as I was told. I downed the foul brown fluid, did a couple of dry heaves and meekly awaited a response to my previous question from the man who I shall henceforth refer to as the anti-Santa.

 

"Your destiny," said the anti-Santa, as he undid the clasp on the box.

 

 

 

It twitched. It pulsed. It actually bloody well glowed.

 

Upon the lifting of the lid, my hearing became crisper, clearer - as if since this morning there had been a dirty great glob of wax wodged up my lughole, which had now been syringed to freedom. I felt like I could actually hear better than I could before this morning, in fact, although the location of my hearing was still a foot or so away from my head.

 

Then I noticed that there was not one but two ears in the box. And the anti-Santa had a missing ear as well.

 

"So here's the deal," said that man. "We do a swap - you have my ear, I have yours - or you buy back your own ear for £500."

 

"What? What are y-?"

 

"What's it to be?"

 

"But that's a ripoff!" I said.

 

"I found your ear," said the anti-Santa; "I brought it virtually to your door for you - I think it's a small price to pay."

 

I considered the other scabby old ear in the box.

 

"Or there's the swap," said the anti-Santa.

 

The other scabby old ear was encrusted with a thick layer of wax and looked like it would break out into weeping sores as soon as you touched it.

 

I wrote a cheque.

 

 

 

You might be wondering where my missing ear had been. And why it had glowed (and twitched and pulsed). And who the anti-Santa was. For answers to these and any other questions relating to Ear Far Syndrome, please check the Ear Far FAQs on the Ear Far Syndrome website.

 

 

 

A. Bugger knows.