Breaking with bangs
Allas 0591/Music/Elephant Parade, Emmen/ Rene Mensen / Flickr
That’s it: I’m safe for another year. Bar the odd New Year’s Eve party or open air extravaganza, no more fireworks.
I’m not a killjoy, honest. I just don’t like big bangs. There’s even a name for those who suffer from this condition: we’re Ligyrophobics. I never thought I would have anything in common with the Duchess of Cornwall but it looks like she has it too. There’s a photo of her with fingers stuffed firmly in ears as shots ring out.
It started young. I would have to be dragged to bonfire parties, picking at the food as I worried about the bangs to come. If cajoled into the garden I would be the one standing at the back, waiting to scarper, or preferably inside with doors and windows shut.
Then there would be kids’ parties and the inevitable balloons. I would wait, dreading the moment they’d burst or worse, when some rat called Anthony (you know who you are) would go round pricking them. And of course there would be science lessons, when I would sit cowering, waiting for the moment when experiment would turn into explosion.
Could it be hereditary or do offspring learn from parental behaviour? Well, my daughter suffers from it too. My husband shakes his head if we subject ushers to the third degree about when (and how loud) a noise will occur if we spot a warning sign at the theatre. A performance of Never So Good at the National was ruined for our daughter when we spotted a sign that there would be a helicopter exploding on stage. She spent most of the time watching the production outside on the monitor, while I screwed my courage to the sticking post and took my seat inside, albeit with hands over ears.
I can’t quite work the condition out, though. I am happy to play sax in a very loud jazz band – the only noise that gets me is if our PA system squawks. And storms don’t overly worry us three Ligyrophobics at home (I count the dog among our number); we don’t hide under the bedclothes or behind furniture. We’re more likely to be counting the seconds between lightning and thunder (yes, the dog too, she’s very intelligent).
For it’s the anticipation that seems to define the phobia. It’s hell waiting for a sound when you don’t know how loud it will be. I would be interested to learn how others cope. Ah well, I have a year to work out my coping strategy.