"Misophonia, literally 'hatred of sound', is a neurological disorder in which negative experiences (anger, flight, hatred, disgust) are triggered by specific sounds. People who have misophonia are most commonly angered by specific sounds, such as slurping, throat-clearing, people clipping their nails, brushing their teeth, chewing crushed ice, eating, drinking, breathing, sniffing, talking, sneezing, yawning, walking, chewing gum, laughing, snoring, typing on a keyboard, coughing, humming, whistling, singing; saying certain consonants; or repetitive sounds".
Now, I’m not a complete lunatic although I can agree with many of the above examples. In defence of my mental state I'd like to point to the following:
"A Dutch study published in 2013 of a sample of 42 patients with misophonia found a low incidence of psychiatric disorders, with the exception of Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder (52.4%)".
Work colleagues who constantly hum, sing or whistle have almost felt what having a biro jammed into their ear feels like. Likewise the ones who cannot type without punching the keyboard or are incapable of walking without stamping like they’re on an audition for Riverdance. If you can’t eat your baguette without closing your mouth (and not sharing its contents with me), I’m likely to want to jam the whole thing in your oesophagus. Sideways.
For a period of time I carried a clothes peg in my car. For some reason the car that I used to own would encourage my keys to jingle while driving along, hanging from the ignition. This was infuriating. Chink chink chink chink. That was simply no good, but a well placed peg would hold them together. Problem solved (although I did get some strange looks from passengers on occasion).
My disdain for flip flops is already documented.
My last PC managed to develop a kind of rattle which was a combination of the moving parts and metal casings which didn’t sit together particularly snugly. After stripping it down, tightening everything and, even employing the use of Blu-tac, it continued unabated. Banging it lightly would sometimes provide respite as it evidently moved whatever was making the noise. However it was only a matter of time before things escalated. During one of its more vocal rattling bouts I punched a hole through the Perspex side of the casing. That didn’t stop it rattling so I got a new PC; it seemed the only viable solution.
I once did some touring around New Zealand, which is a stunning country saddled with a speed limit surely designed to protect the native possum population. I hired a car on the north island, dropped it off at Wellington before taking the ferry to the south island and picking up a different car there. I had several hundred miles of travelling on lovely, deserted roads before I reached my final destination (in Queenstown). The driving should have been fun, except the hire car had some kind of bell behind the dash which rang constantly if you broke the pitiful 60mph speed limit. The bell sounded like one you might have above a shop doorway, so imagine that going continually. I couldn’t work out which would send me insane first; travelling slower than one of the glaciers I was going to visit or that bell, accusing me of driving recklessly. It was a strident ringing too, so turning up the stereo made no difference. I could have had Iron Maiden playing live, two feet from the car, and you’d still have been able to hear the bloody bell. Tempting as it was to drive the car off the side of a mountain I just about retained my control (which was remarkable because my anger only succeeded in starting another annoying noise: my girlfriend).
I am better prepared to tolerate noises which are expected, but not ones which shouldn’t be there. The Xbox 360 sounded like a 747 on full thrust when the drive started spinning but I could live with that – it always did it and they all do it. Squeaks and rattles which are not supposed to exist send me apoplectic though. Cars are the very worst place for them to occur and, in the past, I’ve had people hunting around the car while I’ve been driving, searching for the cause of the intermittent rattle which had been digging at me like Chinese water torture.
A few years ago I came close to buying a pair of Sidi motorbike boots until I realised that every person I had seen wearing them squeaked when they walked. The boots squeaked (not the person, obviously) and I didn’t care how good they were after that. I wanted nothing to do with them until Sidi had worked out which bits of plastic were rubbing and sorted it. I’d have taken smashed ankles over sounding like a family of mice at a cheese fair.
The one room in the whole house which has squeaky floorboards is the one which is an ideal size and shape for my office. How can that be? There are six rooms upstairs and the only one with squeaky floorboards is the one I’m sitting in, writing this. And it's not one floorboard either, every bloody floorboard in the room squeaks.
My daughter also squeaks, which can sometimes be annoying although she doesn’t rattle. Well, I don’t think so. I haven’t tried as I’m told it’s bad. Once again though, it’s to be expected so how can I complain? Obviously I do, but with less vehemence than if she was an immaculately constructed £450 bed which squeaks every time you move half an inch. I’m not punching that though, because solid wood is stronger than 2mm of Perspex and I don’t want to sleep on the floor any more than I fancy breaking my hand.
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