bulk :: 15st 5
booze :: yeah, yeah
painkillers :: loads
joints :: quite a few
healthy meals :: zero
films :: 1
visits to the dentist :: 3
days till deadline :: 4
panic level :: zero. I am nothing if not professional.
whinge level :: 4
crunching self-pity quotient :: 1
boundless optimism quotient :: 9
As I write, the anaesthetic is beginning to wear off and my bottom lip is beginning to throb gently. I have dental problems.
I am dentally ill.
Just before New Year, in Edinburgh, one of my teeth – lower east side – had a little breakdown. A shard gave up the ghost and came loose in my mouth. I was very alarmed. Horribly so, to the point of experiencing serious mortality flashes. Thankfully there was no pain. Back in London I popped along to the perennially cheerful dentist I pop along to on such occasions. He was glad there was no pain. I was glad too and we set a date to meet again soon and get all fixed up.
The tooth would be fixed over two visits while I waited for the inlay to arrive. Everything seemed to go well with the first visit, until two days after the treatment when I woke up in pain.
I hate pain.
I know, I know, everybody hates pain. I reckon even people who profess to actually like pain only really like it on their own terms. I bet there isn’t a masochist alive that relishes toothache.
So I started drinking whisky and taking painkillers. When the next morning it showed no signs of abating, I went back to the dentist. This time I was told that my nerve had become enraged. I can’t remember the word which was actually used, but believe me, it was enraged. It was absolutely livid. I was told I’d need root canal treatment and taken through the list of prices. I felt a little light-headed. I was then prescribed some antibiotics and told to come back next week, for my second scheduled appointment on Monday 2nd March.
Unfortunately, despite the antibiotics, the pain continued unabated. I put up with it over the weekend but Sunday was a nightmare which no amount of cannabis, whisky and Nurofen could palliate and I vowed to find emergency treatment somewhere today.
And so, a couple of hours ago, I returned from the dentist, having had half of the root canal treatment. I’ll have the other half next week.
At the moment I’ve got a bit of putty in my tooth, holding in place some antibiotic gauze or something. It’s been cleaned. Now the nerve has to be neutralised. Only not now, next week. The pain should apparently start to lessen if not tomorrow, then the day after.
So as I write, the lip throb has given way to a heavy tooth throb. It’s really annoying. It’s worse than reading a book written by Chris Moyles. In fact, it’s like reading one page of Moyles over and over and over again. It’s so boring. You know exactly what’s coming next, and there’s no poetry, no poetry at all.
I haven’t eaten since yesterday at about 4 and I don’t feel confident about eating on the putty pain area. So I’m thinking it might be time to break open the Madal Bal. I’m starving hungry though, so I might just buy some tomato soup instead. And chocolate.
Yes. I’m in no fit state to fast.
It’s getting very bad again.
Just saying. Not grumbling. On the contrary, I feel like a proper writer now. Not only did my woman done leave me – obligatory blues riff – but the pain in my mouth allows me to pretend that I am Martin Amis and the whisky on my breath allows me to pretend that I am Ernest Hemingway and all the heartache, bitterness, pain and ceaseless whinging makes me worry that this book is not going to be the hilarious, heart-warming and life-affirming work of lasting worth that I want it to be, but a great festering pile of self-indulgent poo.
But on the whole, I’m feeling optimistic.
I turned over some of the soil in the back garden at the weekend and it looks good. Rich and wormy.
Just as soon as the deadline is met in four days' time, I’m going to start concentrating on enjoying the Spring, which means planting some vegetables and buying a kitten, getting my feet scraped and getting back into regular exercise.
I'm also looking forward to blogging again. I've got a couple of things to talk about, including a recent evening of unexpected celebration and a surprising account of a recent Sebastian Horsley outing.
Oh, and Keith's dad is doing well after a recent operation. So we thank fuck for that.
And we marvel at Keith's weird fishes:
Ooh, another piece of good news I heard last week was that therapy is tax deductible. I wish dentistry was. It’s not, is it?