I had one of the more bizarre experiences of my life today. Here’s how it went.
I’d fixed a dental appointment for 11.15 am in order to discuss with my implant specialist what to do next about a tooth which has, on and off, been giving me infection pain for some five years now. If this sounds wacky to you then so be it, but it’s a fact: focused meditation on the pain usually makes it recede until The Next Time. Trouble was, the sheer amount of meditation required was getting me no further than medication: in the end, the conscious healing part of the brain switches off for a rest…and never more so than during periods of stress. As there’s been more than enough stress lately, I decided it was time to part company with the tooth.
My dentist Fabienne concurred. The most painful part of all such dental experiences having been completed (the anaesthetic injection) she was about to begin that bit where dentists stand on your chest to pull and twist at the facial orifice when her dental assistant Beatrice rushed into the room and said there was an Englishwoman on the phone, and could I translate.
I duly spoke to the lady on the other end, who gave me her email address (Beatrice had been unable to grasp the English phonetics) and then asked if “your organisation” could send her a brochure.
Me: A brochure about what – implants?
Her: Pardon? No about the retirement complex.
Me: This is a dental surgery.
Her: Is it? Oh, you’re a dentist….
Me: No, I’m a patient. I’m sitting here about to have a tooth extracted.
Her: Oh my God….
Me: I think you probably have the wrong number.
Her: I suspect you’re right.
Me: Good luck in finding what you’re after.
Her: Thank you.
Anyway, the rear molar is no more. And I feel a great deal better off without it.
My dentist’s surgery, by the way, is in a street called Rue Filhole. You really couldn’t make this stuff up.
Samantha Cameron, it seems, is twice as popular as the closest running leader’s wife. So in the spirit of gender equality. the Conservative Party has decided to “push her to the front” in the race to be Wag to one of four UK top pols bidding to be in that smoke-filled room where the electoral will can be pulled every which way in order to produce a Pyrrhic victory for the next mediocrity doomed to be Her Majesty’s First Among Equals. Or as I would prefer to call the eventual loser, Equal Among Unremarkables.
When I saw the piece splashing this sensational revelation at The Telegraph today, I immediately remembered what I’d intended to blog about at some point yesterday: the relative quietude of King David of Camerlot from our media in recent days.
Apart from boring the backside off an infant school pupil yesterday, the Prime Minister has been remarkably silent of late. We do not know we cannot tell why…but what we do know is that for the first time, his popularity rating has slipped below that of Ed Rubberband. And dear old Hairgel Garage has suggested that Mr Cameron is dyeing his hair to avoid looking over the hill.
Certainly, Dave has a gigantic hill to climb.but he may perhaps take some Southern Comfort from the likelihood that neither Nick Clegg nor UKip’s Farrago will be elected to the next House of Commons.