It’s the little things that hurt ……


I’ve had a few health problems this week following a slight mishap, so a short time off work while I have a considerable amount of interaction with the NHS, who have been bloody brilliant – I don’t care what the press spout about them.  I’ve had thousands of pounds invested in me, and I’m damn grateful.  I’ll tell you about it of course, but another time.  I tire easily, so this week’s blog (which has taken me all day on and off) is a short one.  I feel especially exhausted when the litter tray needs doing, but tend to rally when the Channel Four racing comes on.

It is often said (though I don’t know by whom) that it’s the little things that hurt you the most, and although I’ve had a few bits and bobs to contend with, all I’ve bleated on about is my sore mouth.  This is the mouth I have mentioned to you before, the one I’ve been back and forth to the dentist’s with.  I suppose I couldn’t really go there without it.  When I say bleated on, I have in fact fallen short of the requisite amount of bleating I would normally consider necessary for an ailment of this magnitude, largely because my mouth has been too sore to bleat comfortably.  Heather has been enjoying blissful silence, while I’ve had to be content with sitting clutching my jaw and looking woeful.  She also respects the fact that I’ve been finding it hard to talk.  Not so my mother.

“I won’t talk to you very much,” Mum said to me last week, “and I will only ask you things that you can nod or shake your head to.”

If only she’d meant it.  Three minutes later;

“So which day is it that Heather is doing the beach assault did you say?”

“Saturday,” I managed to grunt.

“So what is it exactly?  I mean what does she do?  Will she be all muddy like she was when she did the stampede?  It’s not good for her you know, all that running around at her age.  She’ll fall and hurt herself and it’ll ruin her clothes.”  Mum fell short of saying, “It’s not a nice thing for girls to do,” which is the standard line she trots out about women’s football whenever we mention going to watch a female friend play for Whitley Bay, but I could see the thought percolating in her mind.  We’re so sick of hearing this remark that we’ve stopped telling her when we’re going, and I have a feeling she’s latched on to this.  In order to deal with her endless interrogation about the beach assault (each question requiring a full-page answer) I found myself swigging copious quantities of the mouth numbing oral wash stuff I’d been given on prescription.  It’s probably neat meths, so it’s small wonder I’ve been ill.

It’s just as well that Mum doesn’t have access to the disclaimer for the beach assault otherwise she would chain Heather to the front door.  I’ve copied and pasted the salient points below;

“I understand, acknowledge and appreciate that there is a risk of injury from the activities involved including, but not limited to the following: (i)botwashani drowning; (ii) near-drowning; (iii) sprains; (iv) strains; (v) fractures; (vi), heat and cold injuries; (viii) dislocations; (ix) heart attack; (x) injuries involving running, climbing, swimming, jumping etc.  I agree that I will take part in the Warrior Beach Assault Event in accordance with the specific safety instruction at the Warrior Beach Assault Event Safety Briefing that I have received before participating in the Warrior Beach Assault Event. I agree to wear any safety equipment provided by you in accordance with the safety instructions and shall ensure my safety at all times.I understand that this event features water and the use of mud and other non-natural substances at some of the obstacles. I understand that, whilst the organisers have taken precautions to check water quality prior to the event, the quality of water can never be guaranteed.”


Anyway, a major part of my mouth problem was that at some point, while my mouth has been swollen and numb in the aftermath of a double filling, I’ve badly bitten my tongue.  Seriously bitten it that is, as in, it really really hurt.  A lot.  So all those around me have had a quiet time while I’ve swallowed my way through a course of antibiotics and copious amounts of Covent Garden soup.

There’s nothing the matter with the treatment I’ve received from the dental practice, which is the one on Dean Terrace that used to belong to Michael Stobbs.  It’s now under now under new ownership and renamed Ryton Dental Clinic.  A bitten tongue and infection is an unavoidable misfortune, but I’m going to bang on about the grey walls again.  Whilst the walls are a misfortune as well, it’s one that is entirely avoidable.  I’d geared myself up to saying something terribly clever about it to the receptionists you know, but only as a parting shot after I’d settled my bill and when I was safely on my way out of the door.  The coward’s route, not giving them a chance to answer back, and secure in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be seeing again them for another six months.  Predictably, I lost my nerve at the last-minute, which turned out to be a very good thing because I was back there less than twenty-four hours later.  This grey colour scheme is the most baffling thing; it’s the colour of a war ship, something out of The Cruel Sea.  I mean to say, why on earth would they do this deliberately?  Someone say something to them, because I haven’t the nerve.

As I say, it’s 7pm and I tire easily, so it’s off to bed for me.  I’ll be back soon as I can, but forgive me if it’s a little longer than usual.

It’s still grey