IT'S true.

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. Although, in the case of my voice, I am hoping its disappearance is a temporary affliction.

I woke up the other morning with a bark in place of my normal speaking voice and it's making life tricky. It's all those little interactions at the station, on the train, at the water cooler, when instead of engaging in small talk, I can only smile benignly and nod.

I've discovered that miming can get you so far, but only if you have a high embarrassment threshold, and a pad and pen can get you out of a hole if you're absolutely desperate.

It's not all bad, though. When I really must speak, the sound which emerges is a rather pleasing rasp, which has had a strange effect on the men I encounter. Male friends have given an unequivocal thumbs-up to this new sound and acquaintances seem strangely keen to prolong conversations.

My husband states, with a dreamy gaze, that he likes this new me; largely mute with the odd husky utterance. Oh yes, he could definitely live with this, he reckons. My toddler thinks I'm playing a game and, after initially being puzzled with all the whispering going on, quickly adapted to this new form of communication and has taken to whispering back.

Throat pain aside, I do prefer this new sound that I produce. In this job, there's no escaping the reality of the sound of your own voice. A significant, and often cringeable, part of my working day is listening back to recorded interviews, which serves as a constant reminder that my tones are sadly more Minnie Mouse than Mariella Frostup.

Apparently, you hear your own voice differently, lower, to the way others hear it which is why hearing your own voice on tape can come as such a shock. Something to do with the vibrations of your skull.

Margaret Thatcher knew the power of a low voice. Famously, one of the first things she invested in, along with a rail of power suits and pussy bow blouses when she became Prime Minister, was a voice coach to lower her timbre. A high voice evokes youth, uncertainty, inexperience, while deep tones suggest authority.

I've tasted the power that comes with a throaty growl and I'm loathe to relinquish it. The only problem is, with each day, I feel it seeping away.

What to do? Take up cigar smoking? Holler myself hoarse at the bottom of the garden every morning? Maybe I can hang out at the local nursery in the hope of picking up a new strain of cold every week or just gurgle with gravel?