We went to see Peter Kay in Sheffield last night. That was good.
But I can normally expect my dentist to knock the smile off my face and, this morning, she didn't disappoint.
To be fair, it wasn't her who put the abscess on my tooth (probably). But I thought she took a degree of sadistic pleasure when telling me what the next steps would have to be now that it was there.
Essentially, the tooth is going to yanked violently from my contorted face first thing next Thursday morning. However, before then, I have to take five days' worth of some peculiar anti-biotic I've never seen before. And it has side effects.
She did mention (with a hint of glee) that it would make me feel sick. But reading the little insert on the way home, I subsequently discovered that I am also liable to shit myself.
And there's more.
As soon as my gaping wound heals sufficiently following next week's assault involving actual bodily harm, I'll have to decide what to fill it with, as I already have a gap in that part of my mouth.
"What are the options?" I asked.
"There are two," replied Miss Dentist. "You could have an implant."
"And how much will that set me back?"
"About two and a half thousand pounds."
"Right. Well, that's not going to happen. What's the other option?"
"A denture," she said.
"And can I have that on the NHS?"
"Yes," said Miss Dentist, looking a little disheartened (and much less rich).
"I'll take it!"
And that was that.
As an aside, I also have to have some other work done, including two new crowns.
But you know, shit happens.
Talking of which, I'd better go - I think my tablets are beginning to kick in...
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