And now to something truly unpleasant. I don’t know in which order to put this: Teeth first, dentist second? In the medical profession there are lots of specializations. First you study for years, then – for even more years – you peer up people’s nostrils, up their birth canal, down their throat or – in the case of dentists – holes. Cavities by another name.
Dentists may earn a fortune. They do. But whilst you have your ‘client’ clamped down on your chair you can’t even have a conversation. Believe me I’ve tried – and I am the patient. The other thing – and this is why I won’t have my eyes operated on in December, the make merry season – dentists need a steady hand. Can you imagine a dentist with a tremor, even a slight one?
Some years ago I came across a statistic – on both alcoholism and suicide. Not that the two are related other than that alcoholism is a slow and sneaky way to kill yourself. So the statistic was startling: Journalists, Vets and anyone living in Vienna (that’s Wien/Austria) are more likely to commit suicide than someone doing accounts. Figures, doesn’t it?
Apropos of nothing: I once took our cat to the vet. Locum. I took one look at the guy. Alcoholics have nothing but my sympathy. Even if they are just about to operate on my cat. I made my excuses. Still remember that sad look in that guy’s eyes when I left the surgery, cat not having been touched. He knew I knew. Sorry I can’t save all of mankind from themselves.
How did I get onto teeth? Something is brewing. Usually on a Saturday afternoon. So, I’ll have another three days to go.
PS Other than that – currently not so much rewriting my will as composing a masterpiece – I am undecided whether to spare the Angel funeral costs by donating my precious body to medical research. Rationale tells me one thing. Squeamishness another. I do not wish to be slaughtered. Even if it is for the good of mankind. We’ll see. Considering that once upon a time medical students had to dig up graves to give them fodder …
Finding myself in a bind. An uncomfortable one.
All my life I have had premonitions. Usually in my dreams. Can’t say I recommend it – even if the premonition is a good one.
The last few nights my dreams are enough to put me off sleep. They are not nightmares, not at all. Far more disconcerting that the ‘story line’ is matter of fact, indeed plausible, with outcomes I can’t quite knit together on waking. Strange, isn’t it: When you are a child you are afraid of REAL things like, say, the dark. Now my dreams won’t let me sleep. I sometimes wake like a diver will come up for air at the last minute. Audibly gasping.
Need to wear hats in England notwithstanding, I sometimes wish I were associated with the Queen. Or Charles. Or someone. One could then go round using “one” without being called pretentious. I like ‘one’. As one does.
Do you remember the film (Dudley Moore) “Ten”? One of those guys who proved that there is more to a man than height. I like men who scramble up hills to get to their woman. Dudley did it so well. I once dissuaded someone to climb a precarious slope to get me some cherries (Switzerland). As alluring as the cherries were ardour needs to be channelled. And sometimes one needs to know how to stem a flow and build a dam (think Holland). One did stay friends. One’s (that’s my) instinct proving right that it pays to not have that marsh mellow.
Marsh mellows – context: Instant Gratification – currently in the news big time. So the deal being that your four year old self is faced with a choice: You can have ONE marsh mellow now or wait for twenty minutes and have two. It’s awful when you think about it. Particularly, when like me, you don’t even like sweets So I sit there for twenty minutes hoping someone would take that damn thing out of my sight, only to then be presented with another one. Brilliant, don’t you think? How to get rewarded in life with things ONE does not want.
Sweethearts, yesterday I left an innocent remark on fresh basil. Yes, basil. The herb. Erb for Americans.
Remark on basil, the (h)erb, and you will be called “a British middle class male dickhead”. I am not easily stunned but slightly perplexed at this summoning up of me. Particularly the ‘male’ since in my experience, not that I’d ever call anyone one, dickheads are male. By definition. Mind you, and in all fairness, about a year or two ago I asked the Angel why men call each other …. never mind. Starts with c ends with t. As mysteries go it’s dense undergrowth.
A kind fellow commentator queried that maybe “assumptions” were made about me. Do you think that original fucker/fuckeress had the grace to apologize? Not on your nellie.
Let not any of you be put off your basil. As the Greeks say it’s the king of herbs. With a smell to die for. I don’t even have it in my heart, though wish I did, to will infestation of black fly on his basil.
Blisters on my feet,