Silence isn’t golden if you love to talk...

8:29am Monday 3rd March 2008

My husband said it was one of best weekends ever.

Funny that, considering he didn't leave the house. He made the remark to some friends of ours, after they sympathised on hearing that I'd lost my voice.

I don't think I've ever lost it completely before, but on Saturday morning I could not speak at all.

I first became aware of my mute state at around 6am when I tried to push the cat off my pillow. He came, as he always does, purring loudly and tapping my face to force me out of bed and towards his food cupboard.

But, despite living with us for four years, he has failed to grasp that for two days every week things are different, and I don't get up at the crack of dawn for work, or to get the children ready for school.

"Get off," I said, but no words came out. "GET OFF!" again nothing. I'd had a sore throat but it seemed to have cleared. This came out of the blue.

I went back to sleep, and when I was woken by my eldest daughter climbing into bed alongside me, I couldn't get the "GO AND WATCH TV!" out of my mouth. It was quite scary. I'm used to being in control - at least in my own home - and, for once, I wasn't.

I couldn't even tell my husband to move over and give me back my half of the duvet.

You don't realise how important your voice is until you lose it.

My voice box is the part of my body around which my life revolves.

I don't score much in the looks or intelligence department, but I can chat for England. And I love chatting. I think I can safely say it's my main hobby. Usually over a cup of tea, or two, or, preferably, three.

I will go so far as to say that I am obsessed with talking. So much so that - I'm embarrassed to admit - whenever those one minute silences are held, to memorise a terrible, tragic event, I find it hard to keep my mouth shut. I suspect other people do too, because - I don't know whether I'm the only one to have noticed - afterwards people talk ten-to-the-dozen. At work, it's like a million parakeets have been released in the office, all chattering away. Actively trying to stay silent is hard. It's like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the need to jump.

I've always been a talker. My school reports were full of damning comments about my constant banter. I put it down to creativity, an active mind, but it didn't do me any favours.

Some people hate talkers. Recently, I boarded a train with my daughters and had no sooner got on than a woman with a face like a dried prune, took one look at my children and said "This is the quiet coach." And it was - it said on the signs. I felt like barking: "The children wouldn't be your problem" but didn't want to trigger a train rage incident.

We sat in another quiet coach, which was full of adults defying the signs and jabbering away on mobiles. For most people, silence certainly isn't golden.

My voice is slowly coming back. "Will you be shouting again soon, mummy?" asked my youngest daughter. That may be a clue as to how I lost it in the first place.

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