Kayt Turner: 'It's hard to convey sympathy at someone's loss with the voice of a cartoon character'

I LOST my voice last week. A nation rejoices, I hear you say. Mr Turner especially loves these times of the year when the throat lurgy strikes. Not because he gets silence – trust me, even if my voice had disappeared completely, I would be able to make my feelings abundantly clear to him.

No, he loves me losing my voice because it provides him with much (frankly unnecessary) hilarity. You see, I don't lose my voice in a good Lauren Bacall-you-know-how-to-whistle-don't-you-Steve style. Oh no, my voice goes completely and utterly Minnie Mouse. Minnie Mouse on helium, actually. It goes so high that frequently only dogs can hear me, and it always, always gets the same response from my nearest and dearest.

Sympathy? Yeah, right. Offer of throat lozenges? As if. A nice cup of hot honey and lemon? In my dreams. No, to a man, they fall about laughing and try to goad me into talking. Getting me to swear is a particular favourite. Nothing, apparently, is quite so rib-ticklingly, thigh-slappingly funny as an extremely high pitched "feck off". The kids, in particular, find it hilarious. They fall about laughing as they try to imitate it – although even they find it difficult to copy. In fairness to them, my sister-in-law did point out that it's almost impossible to maintain any control with children when all you can do is squeak at them. "Get down from that table right away, or there'll be big trouble young man," doesn't have quite the same ring of authority when delivered in a comedy squeak.

Obviously in these circumstances I try to communicate as much as possible by e-mail, but curiously, the minute I say I've lost my voice, everyone wants to phone me. Supposedly to empathise, but I know fine well that they just want to giggle at my expense.

The first time I was afflicted like this, Mr Turner could hardly contain himself. He phoned up nearly everyone we knew and forced me to speak to them. Then he went out and bought me a pair of Minnie Mouse ears. (He'd like me to point out that they were proper ones from the Disney Store – no cheapskate, he.) I did keep them in my desk, but since my super-sympathetic colleagues used to make me wear them whenever the voice went, I was obliged to take them home. Now it's just the kids that force them on me.

As someone who is used to expressing exactly what I think about things, sometimes robustly, it's pretty hard to avoid talking completely. I can't just stay at home with my head under the covers sooking Dequacaine to numb the pain. Much as I would love some idle recuperation, life goes on and "I've got a bit of a sore throat, I'll not be in today," doesn't really cut it with the boss.

Which means I've had to fulfil all the commitments in a packed social calendar, including hatches, matches and dispatches. Believe me, it's hard to convey your joy at a newborn, happiness at a union or sympathy at someone's loss all with the voice of a cartoon character.

But I can take it all in my stride. You know why? Because every giggle, every smirk, every crack about shattering glass has been noted and will be repaid in full. You know who you are. And if you have any sense you should start to feel very afraid.

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