Jonny McCambridge: What we have here is failure to communicate. Two pet phrases – What d’ye say? D’ye hear me?

“What d’ye say?” I bellow.

Answer comes there none. I try again.

“What d’ye say?”

Still no response. I crack and rouse myself from my seat, going swiftly towards the other room.

“What d’ye say?”

My wife and son look at me blankly. “We didn’t say anything. It must be the TV.”

I go back, mumbling bitter words under my breath. The Stormont committee rolls on, but I have lost track of it. I know who is speaking, but not what it is they are speaking about.

I hear voices from the front room again. I listen closely. This time I am sure it is my wife and son. I rise from my seat and announce my presence in the next room once more.

“What d’ye say?”

My wife and son burst out laughing.

“We were just having a chat,” my wife says. “We weren’t talking to you.”

Again, I retreat, shaking my head. I set to my work with renewed determination, keen to get finished. I can still hear my wife and son. The chat is louder now, but I am determined not to be made a fool of for a third time. I put headphones on as I begin to transcribe quotes from my recording device.

A few minutes later my wife comes into the kitchen. I can immediately sense her agitation.

“Did you not hear me asking you to put the kettle on? I’ve been shouting at you for five minutes!”

The tea is made and the afternoon thins out to become the early evening. I turn the laptop off. The committee finishes and the working day is drawing to a close.

I feel the familiar pang of hunger and start to think about preparing dinner. I am collegiate in my approach and try to seek consensus before putting anything in the oven.

"What d’ye guys want for dinner?”

No response.

“What d’ye want for dinner? D’ye hear me?”

Still nothing. Again, I make the trek between the rooms.

“D’ye hear me?”

My wife and son look up from the telly in unison. “What are you talking about daddy?”

“I was asking what you wanted for dinner. Did y’e not hear me?”

“We never know what you’re saying daddy, you’re always mumbling so nobody can make you out.”

I am wounded as I retreat. I make pasta for dinner. Later, in a calmer moment, I reflect on the imperfect nature of the exchanges. I am reminded of the famous captain’s quote from the movie Cool Hand Luke – “what we have here is failure to communicate!”

Nobody ever carries out a stocktake on diction, but I suspect that if they did, two of my most commonly expressed phrases at home would be “What d’ye say?” and “D’ye hear me?”

To be clear, this is not one of my normal whines about the debilitating signs of age (although that regression undoubtedly plays a part). While I do not hear as much as I used to, I still hear plenty and do not consider myself to be aurally challenged. Instead, it is an observation about existing on different plains.

This became apparent to me recently when I had my son and three of his friends in my car. There was plenty of excited chatter from the boys. I soon became aware that although I could hear what they were saying, I could not follow their meaning.

I understood the meaning of the singular words, but not their impact when strung together.

I tried to contribute to the conversation. I thought that I was expressing myself clearly but I was met with blank looks from the kids.

As I glanced in the rear-view mirror towards the back seat and caught the harsh glare of my son in my direction, I was persuaded it was best not to pursue the point.

The truth was that I could not follow because the common references, the slang and the base points were all alien to me. I was the reminded of the old record players that were common when I was growing up. I was communicating at 33RPM while my son was operating at 45RPM.

To give a more contemporary reference, he was sending his messages out in digital format while I was still using analogue. The starting point of language is the same, but there is very little overlap beyond that.

It is the morning and I am trying to get my son ready for school. We are running late.

Despite my repeated entreaties it is hard to rouse any sense of increased momentum from him. My orders are mostly ignored.

I find myself at the bottom of the stairs yelling up “D’ye hear me?” over and over.

Then my son appears from the bathroom and mumbles something in my vague direction. I cannot follow.

“What d’ye say?” I holler back.

My son rolls his eyes and sighs in an exaggerated fashion. I’ve had enough. I motor up the stairs.

"Why is it,” I begin, “that when I say something and you don’t understand, it’s my fault? But when you say something which I don’t understand, it’s still my fault?”

My son raises his eyebrows, as if genuinely intrigued by the question.

“Cause everything is always your fault daddy.”

And this, for once, is something I understand perfectly.