Category: Journal

Cracking a tooth on a frozen Opal Fruit (Starburst for anyone in their teens) caused me yet another visit to the dentist last week. Actually, I had three visits; the first time the dentist was sick and only the hygienist looked at it. The second time there was a gas leak at the dentist, so my dentist had a look at it in reception and told me to come back when the gas had gone away. The third time I went I actually got the work done and my tooth is now fixed up and ready to chew for another few years.

It’s come to annoy me that I’ve been to the dentist hell of a lot over the last few months, having finally lost the plot with the teeth on my lower left side being extremely sensitive I decided to go get them sorted out before xmas. I ended up needing root canal in two of them, which was lovely, and over the course of four appointments either side of the festive period it cost me upwards of ?200.

So there I was, back again only two months later, with my dentist commenting that I’d become a real regular since he took over from my old dentist.

“Tell me about it,” I said “I should be invited to the christmas party.”
“Absolutely,” the smug fucker replied, “you’ve probably paid for the christmas party by now.”

I think that might have been a rookie dentist faux pas, as I cant imagine it’s good practice to remind people how much you’re going to skin them for half an hour’s work/mindless banter with the hygienist.

Anyhow, pain in jaw and wallet in hand, I made my way to reception to pay Marie the ?60 for the Opal Fruit repair. The fact that I knew the name of one of the many receptionists/hygienists brought further ridicule on my situation. You should never be attending the dentist often enough to be on first name terms with them, and certainly not to the point where they’re comfortable enough to say “See you, Rob” as you bid them goodbye.

As evidence that there’s a greater plan to life, and that the individual in charge of that plan has a profound sense of irony, I discovered in the last week that my company conference is going to be in Malta in June.

At least this time around I’ll have something to do and have a bunch of my mates with me, although sadly not Fliss who deserves a better attempt at a holiday as much as I do. While she’s enjoying the use of the car for a working week, I’ll be staying in a sumptuous five star hotel rather than an old folks home with piss-proof furniture masquerading as a hotel.

Okay, lets get one thing straight, right off the bat. I know there are people out there who would kill for a holiday during February. So, with that in mind, I don’t want to come across as an ungrateful whinger who went on a cheap winter break and found it to be, in the main, shit.

However, if I didn’t moan and have a rant about things then a vast majority of the content on this site would end up the same as the holiday – dull.

So, not wanting to dwell on how much of a let down the whole thing was for us, I’ll try to convey the disappointment of the whole week by way of a promising subplot that had been gaining momentum before we arrived.

The early part of the week contained the potentially explosive love triangle involving Fliss‘ dad, Ted, and an older, irish man called Billy, vying for the affections of a lady named Beryl. These are, I think, fantastic old peoples names that anyone who’s ever played with Sensible Soccer’s Old Folks XI team will remember with mirth. None of your Kylie’s and Tyler’s to be found here – just old fashioned monikers that conjure up images of rationing and seaside resorts in their heyday.

Anyhow, Ted is a sharp old chap, who, despite being into his mid 60’s, isn’t what I’d call a proper old codger. He has the occasional stubborn old codger moment, I’ll admit, but for the most part Ted is young at heart, far from being on the scrap heap, and only his poor hearing lets him down. Due to the slight deafness, he seldom initiates conversation with people to avoid embarrassment, and this was the case with Beryl. Billy, on the other hand, was a wittering old budgie who sprinkled the words “you know?” into every bumbling sentence that left his mouth. You only had to make the mistake of asking Billy the time and you were fucking stuck there for twenty minutes while he struggled to recall some example of how he’d once used a watch in some way. Beryl obviously had the patience of a saint, because Billy seemed to be quite welcome at her table and, as far as Ted could see, the old irishman’s persistance was paying off.