And so Friday arrived…
I drove gingerly to the dentist.
My little red car slotted into the parking space by the letter box.
I was punctual and ready.
Rome had been and gone.
My holiday had been and gone.
My birthday party had been and gone.
This was the moment of tooth.
I took my seat in the dental chair, a press of a button and I was tipped up vertically. Dr. Simon Wragg – who is the best dentist in the Universe – numbed my bum ( sorry a typo that should read gum) with some liquid anaesthetic. Then two needles full of pain killer, minus adrenylin, were released slowly into my gum.
I wanted to listen to Desert Island Discs, can’t remember the guest, but his first choice was a brilliant song by Bozz Scraggs, It reminded him of holidays in France with his friends and family. It had the melancholic air that’s just right for an extraction but Terry Wogan is the broadcaster of choice for my dental surgery. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because Mr.Wogan is a little numbing himself.
I could here the crack and creak as Simon worked the forceps. I could feel my poor mouth being rearranged. I swear Dr. Wragg took his boots off and crawled into my mouth on all fours and hacked at my root canal like he was digging for uranium. Christine, the gentle nurse stroked my cheek, at least I think she did my face was dead at this point, As the last piece of tooth was chipped away the chair was tipped upright, I swigged at the pink mouthwash and Simon pinged off his rubber gloves.
Bovine granules were sprinkled in the hole to help the bone heal in preparation for an implant should I need one, and then my dentist took a threaded needle off Christine and proceeded to sew me together. I could sense the needle going through my gum as he stitched one side of my gaping cavity to the other. By the time Ken Bruce came on I was done.
Bruised, pale with what felt like a crater in my mouth I drove home.
The last time I felt so down in the mouth was when a wild horse, in Dorset, kicked me in the teeth. So instead of ironing I dribbled about a bit – sorry wrong choice of word.
Jim had an appontment in the afternoon so we came back into TWells together.
Whilst he was being investigated by his dentist I wandered around the shops.
He telephoned me to tell me that his dentist had said I was not to walk or do anything strenous for three days. So I waited for him to collect me and off we went to the Industrial estate to take my stereo into the menders.
In my excitment at being 60 I had wrenched the CD trays out of alignment. I am bereft without my music.
Later that afternoon, my mouth full of cottonwool and black cotton I interviewed a new gardenercumhandyman called Ashley. He is brilliant. Born and bred in the bagel bakes of the East End, rehoused in the slum clearance capital of the World Boreham Wood, we had a lot to talk about over my Wisteria. He also lives five minutes away. He and his wife had a cup of coffee and I left him fondling my clematis in his big, safe hands.
On Saturday, Jim and I had a cup of coffee in The Pantiles. The sun was shining, I was feeling a little raw, but all was well with the world until I could feel a little bit of cotton with the end of my tongue.
By the time I got back to the flat the little tail of black thread had become a long string.
I took the end between my fingers and before you could say NO DONT PULL ON IT the stitch was out.
Yesterday I was told that the wound was healing well, my gums were a nice shade of pink and the bruising would soon be gone, the loss of the stitch hadn’t done any harm.
To celebrate I had a facial and TLC from my ever caring AMANDA DAY, then spent the night in the pub with my homoeopath, a bottle of white wine and a bag of poppadums.
It’s now Good Friday for all sorts of reasons.
Only two days before the old man comes down from Scarborough where he’s doing his play in the round and getting jolly good rounds for it.
I am cooking for four tonight and the sky is grey which means its always good to be inside.
Time to write my thank you letters and settle down with a fresh cup of coffee and a gum-baba