Monday, September 13, 2004

The Drugs Don't Work 

Just sit quietly for a moment and tell me what you can smell. If it’s cloves, then that’ll be from me. It smells of Christmas but without the oranges. Sorry about that.

My teeth are conspiring against me and to look at me now you’d think I was chewing a space hopper. Today I am more John Goodman than John Cusack.
After a weekend of chomping through Anadin and Ibrufen and smearing my upper regions with clove oil, I managed to secure an emergency appointment with the dentist this morning. I think the reception staff just wanted me out of their waiting room - I was making the other customers nervous.
The dentist looked very pleased - “I knew this was going to happen!” - like she’d correctly predicted the winner of Pop Idol. She then chiselled away one of my many fillings and gave me a prescription for two lots of anti-biotics. Both are huge, to match my misshapen face I suppose.

If I’d ever run a marathon or climbed Everest, which I haven’t, I certainly wouldn’t want to repeat the experience. Such activities are tests of endurance, to see how much pain and misery you can withstand. Once you’ve driven your flag into the North Pole, proven to yourself that you’re actually a pretty tough cookie, what’s the point in doing it again?
These are my feelings about teeth extractions. I’ve been through it before, twice, and been a very brave boy - I have the badges to prove it - and not cried out when I actually wanted to scream and holler.
But a third time?
I’m going back on Thursday morning. I think I’ve lost my nerve.

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