Fear and loathing in East Anglia
This afternoon, I had my second filling ever. The first one was ten years ago, and I thought my teeth were ok as I only visited the dentist two months ago. However, last night half of one of my teeth made a break for it, so at 3pm today I was quivering in the dentist's chair while a gruff South African dentist with a Jimmy Edwards moustache loomed over me with a gert big needle in his hand. I'm the first to admit that I'm a complete jessie when it comes to pain, and I honestly don't see anything wrong with that. If something hurts then to my mind it's your body's way of asking you nicely to stop it now, please, and I'm all for that. The Other Half helpfully pointed out when I voiced my fears that I've been through childbirth, and that therefore this would be a breeze. Fantastic - so they give you plenty of drugs and smile indulgently at you as you call them evil fucking motherfuckers for the twelfth time in ten minutes at the dentist now, do they? Bring it on. As it turned out it didn't hurt a bit, and took all of ten minutes which pleased me immeasurably as a) I didn't disgrace myself by crying and b) it was only quarter past three and my boss (who, improbably, was even more rude and irritating today than I've previously encountered but I won't bore you with it) had told me not to bother going back to work. Presumably because he likes it better when I'm not there to variously contradict, ignore or bully at his whim. Still, he's short, bald and universally disliked so I take small comfort from the fact that in at least two respects I'm infinitely superior to him.
In other news, I'm actually quite scared that in writing about Mr and Mrs Drop Dead Fred I may have unleashed some Stephen-King-esque curse and that they're proper dead next door, surrounded by empty Reisling bottles, their faces frozen in a final hate-filled bellow. The mother of all arguments ebbed and flowed last night for an unprecedented six hours. It had all the best bits - locked doors, cries of "fuck off", staggering, ranting, bellowing and door slamming. I was woken up at 11.30pm by a row so loud that I could clearly hear it, and they were inside their house. All the lights were blazing, the patio doors were open and it had the air of a hack-and-slash film in the making. I'm sure I heard the distinctive sound of slamming doors at ten to seven this morning, but apart from that, nothing. Not a sausage. Nobody wobbling round the garden flicking the v's at the living room. No pants posted onto the patio. Nada. All the doors and windows are closed, with the exception of the kitchen window which is permanently open to ensure the efficacy of the "fuck off" shouting post-lockout. None of the lights are on and the telly's off. Of course, the simple answer is that they've gone on holiday in order to ring the changes by getting pissed on tequila and therefore adding an extra frisson of exotica to the nightly fights. However, I have an overactive imagination which relentlessly generates ever more ghastly scenarios and therefore that can't possibly be the explanation. Too rational. At this point the Other Half will be rolling his eyes while reading this, and looking forward to yet another night of soothing me from nightmares which are triggered by any number of innocuous events, let alone my murder-suicide-at-the-neighbours'-house theory. I blame my mum for letting me watch banned horror films from the age of six. Tsk.
On an unrelated note, but no less puzzling, last night I dreamed that I was on a yacht with Maxwell out of Big Brother, which capsized. It was ok though, as we simply floated the onboard computer on a handy lilo and surfed the internet until we were rescued.
What can it all mean?
In other news, I'm actually quite scared that in writing about Mr and Mrs Drop Dead Fred I may have unleashed some Stephen-King-esque curse and that they're proper dead next door, surrounded by empty Reisling bottles, their faces frozen in a final hate-filled bellow. The mother of all arguments ebbed and flowed last night for an unprecedented six hours. It had all the best bits - locked doors, cries of "fuck off", staggering, ranting, bellowing and door slamming. I was woken up at 11.30pm by a row so loud that I could clearly hear it, and they were inside their house. All the lights were blazing, the patio doors were open and it had the air of a hack-and-slash film in the making. I'm sure I heard the distinctive sound of slamming doors at ten to seven this morning, but apart from that, nothing. Not a sausage. Nobody wobbling round the garden flicking the v's at the living room. No pants posted onto the patio. Nada. All the doors and windows are closed, with the exception of the kitchen window which is permanently open to ensure the efficacy of the "fuck off" shouting post-lockout. None of the lights are on and the telly's off. Of course, the simple answer is that they've gone on holiday in order to ring the changes by getting pissed on tequila and therefore adding an extra frisson of exotica to the nightly fights. However, I have an overactive imagination which relentlessly generates ever more ghastly scenarios and therefore that can't possibly be the explanation. Too rational. At this point the Other Half will be rolling his eyes while reading this, and looking forward to yet another night of soothing me from nightmares which are triggered by any number of innocuous events, let alone my murder-suicide-at-the-neighbours'-house theory. I blame my mum for letting me watch banned horror films from the age of six. Tsk.
On an unrelated note, but no less puzzling, last night I dreamed that I was on a yacht with Maxwell out of Big Brother, which capsized. It was ok though, as we simply floated the onboard computer on a handy lilo and surfed the internet until we were rescued.
What can it all mean?
posted by surly girl at 9:27 pm
8 Comments:
I'm speechless, but giggling ...
why are you speechless? You're not the one who's inadvertently killed your neighbours (note to any official law-enforcement people stumbling across this - this is purely conjecture on my part. honest). oh dear.....
This is what I am speechless about ... "I dreamed that I was on a yacht with Maxwell out of Big Brother, which capsized. It was ok though, as we simply floated the onboard computer on a handy lilo and surfed the internet until we were rescued." It's kind of like work really, but without the lilo. and with Maxwell.
As for the neighbours ... the rest of us have to watch telly for that sort of entertainment ...
of course that should have said "and Maxwell" or "and without Maxwell"
let you off, as, rarely, i'm not feeling that pedantic today.
if the DDF's turn out not to be dead after all I'll text you next time they kick off, and we can crouch at my window and eat crisps while we watch.
how do i get a picture with my comments?
Phil G did an article about getting pictures with comments a couple of months ago. Plough through them all (or ask him nicely).
What is it about East Anglia, that there are so many bloggers all commenting on each other's blogs?
inbreeding? to my knowledge i'm not related to any of these people, but in this corner of the world you never can tell
I was going to point you to http://www.gravatar.com/ but for some reason the link is working here. I seem to recall you have to register there, upload a pic and then whenever you comment using your (registered) email address, it just pops the pic in - magic!!
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