The Whole Tooth

A disadvantage of modern dental hygeine is that I keep flossing out fillings. Well, I've done it twice this year. It's an awful feeling - the triumph of thinking you've finally dislodged that nagging bit of lettuce followed by the heartrending "ping" of enamel hitting basin and the sinking thought "Clumsy and Expensive! So you".

The good thing about my dentist is that he's hot. I can see no way of translating this into an actual dating opportunity as he's made me whimper simply by muttering "root canal, it's not so bad". He's very Eastern European preppy - wearing neatly ironed stripy shirts tucked into chinos in a way that just makes me want to hug him. A friend acidly comments, "Why not make the first move by reminding him that dental anaesthetic suppresses your gag reflex?"

That turns out not to be true. Halfway through surprise replacement filling yesterday there was a sudden "oh" from Hot Euro Dentist followed by frantic vacuuming of my throat, and not in the hoped-for way. Turns out new filling had immediately fallen out and vanished. It's not pleasant swallowing a tooth. It's even less pleasant having to bring it up again, especially when encouraged by cries of "Don't swallow it! Don't swallow it!" and "Oh god!".

Yesterday included googling "How poisonous are fillings?" with a face like a bloater fish. I'm increasingly jealous of my dad, whose visits to the dentist involve dropping his teeth off at reception while he nips out to the shops.

ill

That was a waste of a sunny week. Thanks cold.

On the other hand it is true - if you don't eat for four days you do lose weight. Who knew? Also, since when is hiccuping for 18 hours part of a cold? I mean, really?

And now, why does everything taste of salad cream? Even tea?

In other news this week, I found an ex on Facebook. A devastastingly handsome ex. Who's now gone... bald and speccy in a very "Grim Up North London" way. Sad week :(

Frigid

Last night was the moment they'll talk about.

Previously my worst absent-mindedness was mistaking a fridge for a microwave. But this was worse.

Last night I discovered that, some weeks ago I'd unplugged the freezer. FOR NO REASON AT ALL.

I opened it and discovered a freezer full of rotten, damp food. This saddened me on several levels.

Let's start at:
A) I'm very mean. This is a real waste of money.
B) I'm very greedy. This was a real waste of food.
C) Why the hell did I do that? What possible reason?
D) As a hoarder this was such an affront. That treasured box of Prawn Toast for an emergency. Those breaded mushrooms for a special day. The trays and trays of dim-sum, the roasts that will never be, the leftovers stored like a wine cellar of vintage meals. All gone.

Thankfully, Lee was over. And so I didn't dare even see if any of it was even vaguely salvageable, but made a great show of binning it all immediately. And didn't even go down to the bins to have a check after he'd left. Not even once.

(well, full disclosure, I did say of one stew: "Oh, I think it's still frozen." To which Lee replied, "No, the white stuff covering that is mould." Ah well.)

Measles

Bizarrely convinced I've had these already. But doctor says no. Last few days have been a grim blur of oily baths, creams, anti-histamines, wine and Agatha Christie books.

It's odd how when I'm healthy I make a real effort with food. When I'm ill... not so much. I got back from Costcutter yesterday with chocolate mousse, pizza, onion rings, and milk bottles.

Last fortnight has been pretty much miserable. And included having a filling without anaesthetic. Oddly, that was a high-spot.

The Root of the Problem

"So," says my dentist, "What made you wait 10 days before seeing me?"

"Wikipedia," I mumble.

She looks like she's about to say something, but instead just prods away at my gum. Eventually she sighs.

"You'll have to take some antibiotics before I can get to it. It's an idea to avoid alcohol." She sees the look in my eyes and barely pauses. "No, really. It'll make you very, very sick. Everywhere."

So. A week without booze. I can do this. I've done it before. There was a period of two years when I was dry, smug, and wafer thin.

But this is different. I've a week before I see her again, and in the meantime I can't really do the following...

• drink
• eat
• sleep
• have sex

Hmmn. This leaves me with smoking and TV. Oh and the gym. Oh dear.

The Hole Tooth

There were two nice hours last night. They were when I discovered that I could block the pain of my wisdom tooth with cheap whisky and fags.

Unfortunately, after two hours I was pissed, so fell into bed, praying for oblivion.

Instead my tooth woke me up a couple of hours later. And then, three hours after that, it woke me again.

So. It's 4am. I'm staring miserably at my pale, pus-and-blood-streaked reflection in the mirror. And I'm thinking "This can't get worse."

Then my boiler explodes and floods the flat.

The Whole Tooth

My wisdom teeth never finished coming through. My last two got so far and then stopped.

However, every time I have a cold, they start moving again. It's clearly some weird sinusy side effect, and it's vile. Colds I can cope with - they're an excuse to replace the gym with a book and some whisky. But the aftermath is horrible.

It's basically a week of my wisdom teeth girding up their loins and making a doomed final push through the gum. The gum doesn't particularly want to know ("Didn't we do this last year?"), so promptly gets all inflamed and huffy, which drives me mad.

I've about four days before
1) lefty realises that he's actually double-parked.
2) righty remembers he's growing sideways into my cheek and gives up again

... and then that'll be it until my summer cold.

In the meantime, that's four more days of whisky, bonjella and jabbing valiantly at infected gum-tissue with a cocktail stick.

No, I'm not going out much at the moment.

Fag End

How much longer am I going to be able to carry on smoking? It's so miserable. At least coke users have the dignity of being able to snort it off a toilet in privacy. SoHo smokers have to stand on the cramped streets, on diplay like we're in the stocks.

Tourists tut at us, whores give us pitying looks, beggars swarm over us.

I had visions of a glorious last summer of smoking, basking on hot cobbles, laughing with all the beautiful people while the squares sat in their boring little smoke-free bars wondering where all the fun is.

Instead, I sat sheltering from the rain and the wind, under a torn awning outside Rupert St of all places.

The one thing I forgot - while Glasgow, Edinburgh and even Cardiff have lots of space for gardens and wide pavements, SoHo doesn't - if you smoke, there's only the gutter.

I hate that I'll give up smoking simply cos it's stopped being fun.

Senseless Waist

I knew it wasn't going well, when my dry cleaner recognised me. "Ooh, it's you! You off the telly! ooh, Hello Marlon!"

This isn't the first time that I've been mistaken for Marlon Dingle from Emmerdale. It's always an ominous sign.

Let's just look at Marlon shall we?

Last time this happened, I remarked sourly "I look like a z-list 'sleb, only fatter."

Oh, how true. You see, I'd taken an old suit in to be let out slightly (nothing major, I thought - it was originally a 30, and I wanted it to be 32, just to give me a bit of comfort). All went well until the tailor reached for his tape.

"38 inch waist, Marlon. You look smaller on TV."

I nearly reeled as much as when I woke up in hospital to learn I had no white blood cells. Oh my god! How did I get obese without noticing it? While fitting easily into normal size jeans...?

Naturally, I'm still in a state of denial. I think I'm a 32 at my porkiest, and his measuring tape lied. The numbers just slipped a little.

"Don't worry about it, Marlon. Me? I just keep losing weight - it has to go somewhere!" My dry cleaner chuckled fondly as I left.

Love my leeches

So, Rick and I went for a walk through the rainforest. Only a short walk as the sun set. We walked back along the river, and got back to the cottage.

"Right" said Rick. "Let's check for leeches." He smiled a sour smile. He'd picked one up a couple of days before, and had proudly burned it off his leg.

We both laughed at the absurdity of having leeches. And then I pulled up my trouser leg and squealed like a greased gerbil.

Both of us had anklets of leeches, hanging off like swollen bling.

The measure of a true friend is what they'll do for you. I've had friends who'll buy me supper, or sleep with me in a crisis. But Rick is possibly the only friend I have who'll spend a patient half hour burning leeches off my legs.

They were vile little buggers, who just wouldn't die, but flopped around on the porch, pointing themselves hungrily towards us.

We then combed through our trainers, which were full of them. I burned my socks.

Bumnami

You’ll get ill in India. It’s how you cope with it. Drink plenty of water and make sure there’s a very nice bathroom nearby. Preferably with lots of marble and a bowl of coloured soaps.

If it was up to me, I’d much rather not poo, or even talk about it. In India it’s a fascinating thing. After all, the streets are full of people doing it, and I’m travelling with a straight man. Straight men like farting, and they love pooing even more.

The useful thing Rick taught me was tagging meals, to see how fast the bacteria were working. Cashew nuts seemed useful, even if my claim of half an hour was hotly disputed.

The only thing against us was the food. Two weeks ago, spicy Indian meal after spicy Indian meal seemed like bliss. Now it’s torture. Breakfast is the worst. Weakly, you plead for a little toast and coffee. They do the Indian nod, and bring you some toast. And then a bowl of curry. And a glass of yoghurt with chilli.

N'ill

Being ill is brilliant. It involves sofa, duvet and endless DVD. It means cracking open the whisky at 10am, cos it's medicinal. It means poor personal hygiene, endless pizza, and sleeping wherever and whenever, cos you're ill.

Being not-quite-ill is rubbish. I've now had a fortnight of it. A whole fortnight of fevers, a hatred of booze and fags, listlessness, and pounding, mashing headaches.

It's frankly boring. Especially when the pain begins at 5.30am. Which means three solid hours of banging pain before work. Which means three hours of squinting at CSI through an ice pack and sunglasses. Bah.

I went and bought a thremometer. It was a Boots toddler forehead thermometer. It told me I was dead. Or, on closer reading of the packet, over the age of six.

Seeing an NHS Doctor in Cardiff involves a special magic I just don't possess. But now, something must be done.

Why? Apart from it destroying my social life, it's got irritating. Yesterday, I developed The Cough. I've had several coughs in my life. The worst was the one where I cracked ribs. But yesterday's cough had a whole new timbre to it.

"Goodness," I thought as I hacked away on the bike ride home, "It's almost as though I'm coughing hard enough to -"

And then I threw up.

i-oh-you

This morning, I finally understand the difference between Author and Reader. I never bothered with it at university. But now, I finally get it.

ME:
Bad news: I was a shameful fool last night.
Good news: It didn't involve sex.

YOU:
Good news: He was a shameful fool last night.
Bad news: It didn't involve sex.

Late last night, pissed and desperate I was a fool. You know that "Return to Base!" thing, where your body goes "You are pissed. You aren't funny any more. Go home."

And home I went, leaving the hotel bar with reasonable dignity and out into the cold night air. Then I realised I had lost my keys.

Completely. With the precision of a drunk, I took my jacket off and folded it out on the pavement, looking for keys. No.

I returned to the hotel bar, and started crawling around looking for keys on the floor. There was no dignity. Just desperation. And no keys.

Someone took me to the hotel reception and explained my plight. The receptionist smiled, pityingly. "How awful, sir! Don't worry - we'll even put you in a suite for the night. Let's end the day on a good note."

I told him he was terribly kind, one of the nicest people in the world. I may even have cried.

I took the lift up to my room, and stepped inside. It was amazing. I stared out at the view, and sighed happily.

It was then that I put my hand in my pocket and found my keys.

Fact of the Day

I once interviewed Sister Wendy. Due to a fault with the dictaphone, although it was recording, the previous contents of weren't wiped. Even for a nun, Sister Wendy was very softly spoken, and the tape had contained Handel's Messiah.

Hours of fun followed, scouring energetic hallelujahs for a whispered nun's "pudenda".

Twelve angry men

I have twelve managers.

Actually, if the definition of a manager is "someone who can pick up the phone and bollock you", make that fifteen.

Er. Help!

Tomorrow's tasks

It's Wednesday, traditionally the worst day of the week. I shall instead enjoy Wednesday. Here's how

1. Not moan about my job. At all. All day.
   
2. Go to my luxury gym.
   
3. Buy more diet Cherry Coke.
   
4. Go see Sandra at the Golden Cross. Those old jokes are like old friends.
   
5. Amend my gaydar profile to say "Please don't get in touch if your profile picture is of Gavin Henson with a caption underneath saying 'This is what i like'." Unless you are Gavin Henson. In which case, welcome to the gun show.
   
6. Buy that Kaiser Chiefs album.
   
7. Build a Lego house for my Lego firemen to conduct manly rescues in.
   
8. Scrap 7. The only other Lego figure I have is Ron Weasely. It's bad enough that I have two roguishly handsome Lego firemen. But I'm not having them engage in hi-jinks with Ron. Even if he does have a wand.
   

Scary Mary

A looong train journey to Plymouth, spent with a wisdom tooth, a god-have-I-fainted-again cold, and a hideous third-eye of a spot. Sat on the floor of the guard’s carriage, with two foreign professors spilling coffee over me and laughing.
The train steward turns out to be a Screaming Mary of the old school. One with flair and personality. “Cooo-eee! This is your steward John! I’m stuck at the back of the train. Aren’t we crowded today! I would tell you about the on-board shop, but lord knows you’ll have to fight your way there to sample our delicious range of sandwiches.”

Later: “And we bring you now on wheels of friendship to historic Exeter St David’s, historic gateway to the historic West Country.”

PS: Have just realised. There’s a strict ratio. For every cute squaddie in a carriage you get one badly behaved child. If there’s a cute squaddie and a cute student, then you get badly behaved child with loud parent of the coaxing school (“Shall we sing the apple-eating song? Shall we?”)

In teeth, wisdom

My wisdom tooth wouldn't have been so bad if my designer wasn't an insomniac and a psychic.

So far, all my wisdom teeth have emerged naturally and painlessly, like a scientologist miracle birthing.

But this last one is heavy going, leaving my gum as inflamed as a Danish Imam with a copy of Asterix meets Mohammed.

The pain is so bad it's weaned me off my sleeping pills. You see, the problem with my sleeping pills is that they'd wake me up at 4am for a quarter of an hour. Exactly.
At the moment it's just dead time, but I'm sure in a future release they'll fill it with adverts.

Sadly, 4am turns out to be the exact time when my bedtime ibuprofen wears off, leaving my wisdom tooth at its sharpest.

So, between 3 and 5 (when the new painkillers start to take effect), my dreams are predictably tortured.

The reason I'm telling you this is to explain the plight of my psychic designer, trying to sleep in the next room.

"Your fear woke me up," he scowled the next morning. "Waves of panic and pain coming through the walls. Couldn't get a wink of sleep. I tried sending thoughts of spiders back, but it didn't shut you up."

Oh.

An Apology

Dear Armpit

I'd like to apologise unreservedly for the agony and distress i caused you when i accidentally stuck a nicotine patch on you. I can only hope that the hair grows back.

Why I'll be spending less time on Gaydar

While a friend logs on to Cardiff gaydar and is immediately on a date with an Italian model, I just received the following message:


"Hello Mate,
I saw your profile and it was suit me and lovely.... I wish to meet you honey.
Am a business man from Spain . i want to come to U.K for a pleasure by next week.
And i will like you to meet me in my Hotel for 1 on 1 sex OR if you can serve me as an Escort in my Hotel in U.K.
Kindly let me know your charges per Hour.
Love youxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Cheersxxxxxxxxxxxxxx"

rrrrrrruuuuuuun!