Something Lost, Nothing Gained.

As soon as I got home I withdrew, quietly to the summer house. Well, the weather was somewhat more amenable than it has been for most of the summer; thus there was warmth to be gleaned.

The smell of sunshine-warmed pinewood, suffused with that of recently prepared coffee, the early autumn light and a good book- currently enjoying 'The Death of Eli Gold, by David Baddiel- maybe just sufficient to distract me from the dull throbbing in my right cheek. Plump cushions upon the old favourite armchair, actually somewhat older than me, a family heirloom if you please.

Thing is, I've just had two teeth extracted and the careful array of targeted pain-killing injections has slowly been deserting me. I'm a tad reluctant to pop a convenient paracetamol, guardian at the gateway to the temple as it were. But, conversely, neither am I prepared to battle pointlessly with an altogether avoidable growing discomfort, if things should get too heavy. An agnostic standing firm, at the temple gates, whatever next? We'll just have to see...

Thanks to dental ben

I'll sup the miraculous liquid through clenched teeth, as I attempt to keep this blood-soaked gauze in place. Let's just hope that the ever-invasive hint of iron doesn't taint the flavour too much. Maybe, with good fortune and an element of luck, Mr Baddiel's carefully crafted words will prove worthy of the task afforded them.

I wouldn't want you to conjure up an image of an old and toothless wisp of a thing. If it weren't for the fact that the bleeding seems to flow with an ever increased urgency, during any sort of physical activity, I'd probably be out for a spin on the bike. One day lost to circumstances beyond my control, I think I can afford that...

What I do find to be increasingly beyond me, however, is the cost of such treatment; an extraction, thus an avoidance of pain, forty-eight quid, if you please. It's not like I'm having my gums botoxed, is it? Apparently the NHS would even have stretched to a more general sedative, my dentist 'reassured' me, should the anxiety have transpired to be too overwhelming. But I didn't fancy the prospects of staggering 'drunkenly', from dentist to coffee-provider, before slurring my excuses to the proprietor, then falling asleep in the corner, blood dribbling down my shirt. Not dignified, don't you think?

And again, to dental ben

Apparently, if eating- always a more appealing option than starvation, I have found- becomes a problem I can always opt for an insert. 'Sadly' this degree of follow-up 'care' falls far beyond the scant remit of 'our' NHS. Two thousand quid, for those with the means. "I'll get back to you on that one," I mumbled, still mopping the spit and blood from my chin.

Dentistry, we are led to believe, is still perched, teetering uncertainly at the peripheries of a crumbling NHS? I wonder what plans for its future, young Jeremy has. Fingers crossed, maybe having inexplicably avoided a prison sentence for his blatant corruption of due democratic process, this time he'll be in a more benevolent and generous mood.

Take care of 'our' little jewel, won't you JC?