READ my lips.

No, really. It’s harder than you think. If you’ve ever sat in a noisy pub and struggled to figure out what the person opposite you is saying, I’m told this is a little bit like what hearing impaired people face every day.

Did they say ‘buried’ or ‘married’? They are not two words you want to confuse but stand in front of a mirror and mouth them to yourself and you’ll realise how similar they look without sound.

Elizabeth Messer, who runs lip reading classes in Weymouth, and was deaf herself before having a cochlear implant fitted, says this uncertainty can lead to a huge loss of confidence for people who are hearing impaired.

It’s something she tackles head on in her classes in the Frank Reynolds Memorial Hall in Broadwey.

“We are here to find friends who understand. It’s about getting more confident,” she tells the group. And then it’s straight into the lesson.

The first thing I learn is that context is hugely important. Elizabeth mouths four words, all connected, without telling us what it’s about. The first one leaves me flummoxed. The second one looks a bit like ‘poodle’. The third and fourth are suddenly easy – ‘corgi’ and ‘spaniel’.

“I have no idea,” says a man, a former naval officer.

If it’s not a subject you’re familiar with, Elizabeth says, seeing the words out of context will be difficult. Everyone who recognised the words owns, or has owned a dog.

Elizabeth tells the man that they are dog breeds, and mouths them again. He gets them straight away.

“This class is an oasis,” says Margaret Hoskins. She has been deaf in one ear for more than 14 years. Doctors have never been able to get to the bottom of what caused her deafness, but something she describes as ‘an explosion in my ear’ happened one day, damaging the nerve endings.

She adds: “Elizabeth is wonderful. Sometimes you do feel people are laughing at you when you can’t hear what they are saying. You feel embarrassed. But here, I am among people who know what it’s like.”

She is well aware of the difficulties of lip reading. “You want so desperately to hear that sometimes you rush ahead and make assumptions about what people are saying.”

Elizabeth teaches us how to look for clues, spotting syllables (‘beginning’ and ‘middle’ look similar, as do ‘dinner’ and ‘tea’) and rhythm.

We are paired up to practise our lip reading. I’m working with Pat Green, 61, who is not hearing impaired, but believes she could be one day.

We talk silently about what we’ve had for dinner. I can just about make out what Pat says but I’m aware I’m leaning forward and squinting at her in a way that must be quite off putting. It takes a lot of concentration.

“I used to work with someone who was deaf,” says Pat. “When I retired I wanted to take a class, and considered sign language, but I found out that is used mostly by those who are born deaf. So I gave lip reading a try.

“It’s a friendly group and there’s a real social aspect to it. My hearing is starting to go. It’s good to know that now I am learning to lip read, that’s not something I have to be afraid of.”

We stop for coffee and everyone wants to chat.

“I can’t say enough good things about this class,” says the naval officer from earlier. “I went to my old boys club last year and swore I’d never go again. I couldn’t hear a thing. But then I started coming here and went again a few weeks ago. I didn’t have a problem at all. That’s the difference this class makes.”

Ann Dennis, 73, didn’t realise she was deaf in one ear until she married husband Paul. Now he is also hearing impaired and they attend the class together.

Ann said: “I always drove until I got married. Then Paul drove, with me in the passenger seat, and suddenly I realised I couldn’t hear him talking. I think everyone finds lip reading hard. But here we’re all on a level playing field.”

Elizabeth always ends the class with something topical. “Subtitles on pre-recorded programmes are excellent,” she explains. “But on live programmes, such as the news, there is a lot of room for improvement. So it’s a good opportunity to catch up.”

Today it’s the blood red ‘supermoon’. Elizabeth mouths sentences, one at a time, and we repeat it back to her what she has said.

She starts off slow. “Did you see the blood red ‘supermoon’ last night?”

I’ve actually written an article on this just hours before, so the vocabulary is familiar, and I can read what she’s saying easily.

But as she speeds up – still nowhere near as fast as people usually speak – it becomes almost impossible.

“A harvest moon rises early and sets late, so it gives the farmers a bit more light to bring in the harvest.”

I get the first bit. The rest is a jumble, until we reach the word harvest again. But several people who have been attending longer than I have are nodding their understanding.

It gives me a real insight into what being deaf is like.

“It’s very awkward, out in the world,” says Jane Rowe, 75. “You feel like you’re hard work. You get lost in conversations. This class is enormous fun. But it’s also been a real comfort to find out I’m not alone.”