I have a temporary crown and get the real one in a fortnight. He froze me up solider than Mr. Freeze in liquid nitrogen, and then I was gagging for about half the time because the freezing was going down the side of my throat and a bit into my tongue and I quit being able to swallow with comfort. Then of course they put a succession of chemical goos in little plates and they tell you to bite down and you know because this ain’t your first tooth-wrangling partay that you actually have to do what they say or the ****sucker will never fit properly in your mouth and even then there will be mighty hammerings and pryings and sawings and filings getting everything just so. But for the five minutes and other minutes that the gooey trays are in your mouth, there’s this impression that you’re sampling ‘the verrrry best a toxic waste dump can offer in the way of chemically goo!’ And I bit myself when frozen, one of my least favourite feelings because you have no way of knowing how bad it is until the freezing wears off.
Now my mouth hurts and the afflicted/treated tooth hurts so FRICKING BAD I am going to get up and get painkillers, and I don’t usually.
And all of this complaining must be set against the balance: that I needed to have the work done, and my family helped me, and I’m really, despite all this colourful whinging, most seriously and abjectly grateful. Thank you.
Oh, and I biked to (in the middle spent time sunning myself at Paul’s, and also, sweeping, as the floors at Planet Bachelor Rev 1.3 needed them, and there was an apple and some San Pellegrino in there too) and from, so please, plaudits for getting off my ass. It too is God’s handiwork, and only needs the chance to shine.
So happy Paul has retired. I certainly think he is happy too.