Wednesday, 7 September 2016

You can do magic...

Yesterday was appointment three of five at the dentist to sort out my crazy teeth.  How you can spend so much on having a tooth replaced so it looks prettier than the ones you were born with, and yet, it crumbles at the first sight of a piece of pork crackling I'll never understand.  So tooth number one is complete and functioning again.  Unfortunately, because there was so little of my own tooth left, the remainder of it having gone the same route as the aforementioned crackling, my lovely dentist had to put a metal filling in.  As it's right at the back, no one can see it, but I feel like Jaws (either the baddy from James Bond or the shark with a penchant for late night swimmers...take your pick).  I am expecting to set off every airport security scanner and will also have to allow for the extra 25gm when I weigh myself each week.

So having had this done, with a numb jaw, I had 45 minutes to kill before heading off to the osteopath.  It's been one of those afternoons when I keep on asking myself, 'What's going to go next?'  To be honest, there isn't much of me left that's not kept together with strong glue, supported by industrial strength elastic, dyed, plucked or pinned together, so half an hour in the capable hands of my wonderful osteopath was minor compared to all the other stuff. 

So back to my unexpected 45 minutes of me-time before I took my vest off.  Cup of tea, naturally, and a Bakewell Tart, courtesy of my local café.  (Not Mrs B's café in Abingdon - by the time I got there and back, there would have been no time for one of her legendary sausage rolls).  Sitting there with the tea, I stared at it like it was my worst enemy, capable of throwing itself down my chin whilst I was assuming it was being drunk in the normal way.  I had taken the tea upstairs where it was quieter, and after a few failed attempts spent a most enjoyable half an hour drinking my tea with the aid of a spoon, and sucking on my Bakewell Tart which I had broken into tiny pieces. 

Then it was a quick rub down of my bosom shelf (I love my Wonderbra as it performs the toughest of miracles on a daily basis) brushing off the soggy crumbs and tea stains which hadn't quite reached their intended destination, preferring instead to sit on my bosom proclaiming to all that could see me, that here was a woman who ate like a pig and wasn't too sure where her mouth was.

Having made myself look vaguely presentable, it was time to head round the corner to see Mr Magic Hands. I would normally have refreshed my lipstick at this point, but sanity prevailed thank goodness.  It could have gone anywhere, and I may have ended up looking like one of those sad circus clowns.  Never a good look.

Within ten minutes of getting there, he had me in a headlock that Hulk Hogan would have been proud of, slowly pulling my head from the depths of my shoulders, where it has been residing for the last few weeks. It was at this point that he started telling me about his forthcoming holiday.  A cruise nonetheless. With the good side of my face pinioned up against his left thigh, and the numb side probably drooling a little, I asked him whether he had allowed for the fact that he would probably be wearing elasticated trousers at the end of the fortnight.

And here comes the revelation.  He takes several pairs of linen trousers with him - all the same style and colour, but in varying sizes, with the largest being saved for the last night's Captain's Dinner I expect.

Now why have I never thought of that...
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