I should be getting on with my work but I’m stuck.
- I’m pre-occupied with thoughts of moving home.
- The Saniflo toilet next to the bath won’t switch off properly.
- Me shares are on the skids, thanks to the Chinese, apparently.
- I may have to have further, possibly painful, definitely expensive work done on the very molar that I tend to chew most on.
Couple of weeks ago, Mr Drake took an x-ray to see what was giving me gip and noticed an infinitesimal splidge on the root. I get that sort of thing on my screen if I sneeze while I’m typing but – “Harley Street,” he said. “Looks like a root canal job. Could be an incipient abscess. I’ll send a note to Mr Lam. He’s excellent.”
It was Lily the receptionist who broke it to me gently me that in order to avoid the extraction of said tooth, I should expect to have a thousand smackeroos extracted from my wallet.
Well, I went to see Mr Lam. Ann, my wife had assured me that it was probably the same Mr Lam who once rootled very successfully in one of her canals. She described a gentle and loquacious giant, a Chinese gent who talked her through the whole thing with all the artistry and sang-froid of the man from Air Traffic Control who talks down a passenger when the pilot has blacked out at the controls.
I went to Harley Street, chequebook at the ready. I found the brass plate and wondered. There was an extra “b”. Hmmm.
As I waited in the sumptuous room appointed for the purpose to be admitted to the inner sanctum, I composed in my head a short, arguably rather vengeful ditty for tweeting purposes that went:
Occurs to me: what I just did
In parting with a thousand quid
To fix my teeth, makes what I am
Strangely, the slaughter to a Lamb.
Turns out that Mr Lamb with a “b” i s in fact a South African of fairly normal proportions and a smile displaying a row of encouragingly dazzling and immaculate choppers. He gives me a going over with some splendid devices including something that sends an electric current through certain nerves, takes another x-ray and declares that by the light of his rather superiorly defined snapshot, the crown shows evidence of a slight lesion underneath but no abscess. All Mr Drake has to do is whip off the crown, re-lay the cement foundation and Bob’s me uncle. Hooray. I return to Baker Street whistling like one who has just lost a small fortune but found several hundred quid lying in the gutter.
Hubris or what?
Returned to Mr D today. He had set aside a spot for me during his lunch-hour and set the meter running. Sadly be was unable to remove the crown without busting it, so he replaced it with a temporary tin and silver job. (I make this sound simple in order to sublimate the crunching, jaw-bending experience that these things are in actuality.) He is popping this on, he tells me, it in case I continue to have any problems. If I don’t, he’ll order a proper porcelain job and if not … I shall probably be back in the arms of Mr Lamb. There. That hardly hurt at all.
The Saniflo engineer has arrived. He has just had to dismantle the entire bathroom in order to get at the membrane that has undoubtedly got choked with lime-scale and is not allowing the cut-out button to cut in.
Ann, meanwhile has gone to Knightsbridge to have her hair done.
God, I shouldn’t be mucking about doing this! I should writing something that’s got a chance of making a few bob. But I’m more blocked than a Saniflo with a dodgy membrane.
It’s the worry, doctor.