The Biter Bit

You'll have to read yesterday's post first if you want this one to make sense.

I've had my treatment. The dentist, I think, was getting his own back for me being such an ex-pat, even though I still strenuously deny that was what I was being. I've even consulted some other ex-pats about the situation and they agreed that I wasn't being one.

Anyway, the dentist started off by apologising for trying to change my appointment, which immediately put him in pole position because I'd wanted to apologise first. An apology second sounds like an afterthought. Anyway, apologise second I did, and I started to explain the reason why I couldn’t make it any earlier, but he interrupted with a curt, “Yes, yes.”

This was the equivalent, for me, of the sound of a doctor in a film putting on one of those rubber gloves in a way that makes it snap against the wrist.

Then he asked me if I’d been in any pain and I admitted that, yes, the tooth had been a little sensitive. He told me that was understandable and perfectly normal. I was then informed that he wouldn’t be using any local anaesthetic today because he needed to be sure that it fitted correctly and that I could bite evenly.

This seemed ominous. Surely I’d be able to tell, even anaesthetised, whether my upper and lower teeth were connecting with each other on both sides of my mouth.

This news that I was going to be crowned without the cushion of anaesthetic, as it were, was the equivalent for me of that doctor in that film with the noisy manner of putting the rubber glove on saying, “Bend over!”

Anyway, he snapped the temporary crown out and pushed the new one in. Youch! He told me to bite. The crown was too big because I couldn’t quite close my jaw on the other side of my mouth. He yanked the crown out again. Ooof! He filed it down a bit with his handheld electric scythe. I was very relieved that this wasn’t taking place while the crown was in my mouth.

He put the crown back in again. Yowser! Still couldn’t close my jaw properly. Out it came again. Yearrggh! He filed for a bit longer before roughly re-inserting it. Oyay! Because most of it’s metal, it had been heated up by the filing process. Double yargghhh! Still no joy. He filed again, then called for the cement. This was applied to my tender, sensitive gum. Eeeek!

He made me bite down hard on some cotton wool. As I’m running out of Beano sound effects, let’s just say that this was the worst pain yet. The worst pain, that is, until I informed him that it still didn’t fit properly and he got his handheld electric scythe and filed it down while it was in my mouth.

The next time he asked me if I could close my mouth properly, I lied and said yes. I walked home very miserably. When I close my mouth now, I look like Geoffrey Boycott.

That’s the last time I ever refuse to change a dental appointment. Especially as my after school commitment was cancelled anyway, so I could have easily made the time he wanted me to go in.

Speaking of doctors, as I was yesterday, I saw the movie Patch Adams last night. I’d never seen it before. It stars, as I’m sure you know, Robin Williams as a student doctor who wants to open up a new type of hospital that heals people by making them laugh. At several points, hilariously, he adorns a red nose and starts leaping around being Robin Williams in a ward full of cancer patients. He also manages to make a man who’s dying of pancreatic cancer laugh by listing different euphemisms for death whilst dressed as an angel.

I have to say that, whilst I agree that hospitals could do with a bit more humour in them, Williams didn’t make me laugh once during this film. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it is the most irritating screen performance of all time.

I brought this up at work today and one of my colleagues summed it up perfectly by saying that she finds it disturbing when grown men behave like little boys all the time.

I was shocked to learn at the end of the film that it’s actually based on a true story.

What a splendid chap.

Treatment

I’ve been in the wars a bit lately. First, a couple of weeks ago, a bit of one of my teeth came out while I was eating a chip. I hate going to the dentist and went for the first time in about six years in April under extreme pressure from various concerned friends and relations. I thought I’d got away with it with a bit of a polish and a couple of minor repairs. It’d only cost me about fifty quid. Fifty quid in five years for dental treatment – not bad, eh?

Then a bit of a tooth came out, so it was back to the dentist. First they sealed it, which cost thirty quid, but that was only a temporary fix. I was advised to get a crown, so I went back last week to have the seal removed and the tooth “prepared” for the crown. I’d never realised that “preparing” a tooth for a crown actually means hacking away at it with some kind of handheld electric scythe until it’s nice and rounded. They fitted me up with a temporary one last week and tonight I go to get the permanent one fitted. This is costing me just under 300 quid.

Still, 350 quid in five years for dental treatment – still not bad, eh?

There may be “complications”, though. Apparently, when my tooth came out, I was “very lucky” that it wasn’t painful, because if it was I’d need a “root canal”. Just as I had no idea what having a crown involved, I have no idea what having a “root canal” involves. I tend to have a put-my-fingers-in-my-ears-and-sing-la-la-la-la-la when it comes to tooth problems. I’d rather not know what a “root canal” is until after it’s happened.

So, I was “very lucky” that my tooth wasn’t sensitive when it fell out. Now that my dentist has hacked most of the rest of the tooth off, though, surprise surprise it’s now hurting. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s only because my temporary crown isn’t quite the right fit and it’ll all be fine tonight after the permanent one’s put in.

I’m wondering whether to even tell the dentist it’s painful. Surely I can withstand a bit of pain in my mouth for the rest of my life?

Still, even if I do have to shell out the equivalent of 650 quid for a “root canal”, 1000 quid in five years for dental treatment – still not too bad, eh?

I’ve also had pharyngitis, which is a posh way of saying “sore throat”. It’s been accompanied by general cold symptoms, headaches and stuff and something which the linked website above calls “post-nasal drip”.

I’m rarely ill and hardly ever go to the doctor. It’s always a bizarre experience because they ask me questions which I’m not sure how to answer. For example, when they ask me if I have any allergies, I never know whether to say that I get hay fever. My guess is that they’re more interested in knowing about whether I’m allergic to things like penicillin. I always tell them about my hay fever but they never write it down.

This time, my doctor asked me whether I was married, then asked me whether I had a girlfriend, then asked me where my girlfriend was (did she mean, “Is she in Singapore?” or did she mean, “Has she stayed at home while you’ve come to the doctor on your own, you poor thing?”), then asked me what my girlfriend does for a living. All the time I’m wondering whether she’s trying to get to know me or whether this information is crucial to my swift recovery from pharyngitis. As a result, my answers are half getting-to-know-you and half functional.

Next time I’m tempted to try a new strategy. When asked a question like, “Are you married?” I’ll give my answer in one word (very functional). Then I’ll loosen my tie, stand up, lean with one arm against the wall, point at her with the other using my hand as if I’m cocking a pistol, wink and ask, “And how about you sugarlumps?” (very-getting-to-know-you).

Anyway, I’m now finally recovering six days after the symptoms started. I reckon I caught it at the dentist.

Actually, I’ve had a bit of a problem with my appointment with the dentist tonight. It was initially supposed to be tomorrow, but I got a phone call yesterday telling me that it had to be moved from 4pm to 3.30pm. I was already leaving work early, so I told them I couldn’t come any earlier, so I’d be there at 4pm as we’d arranged last week, and anyway, while we’re at it, why has my appointment just been changed without asking me first? The receptionist said she’d call me back.

It’s hard sometimes being an ex-pat because I’m not sure whether I’m “being an ex-pat” about things, you know, all bolshy and everything-should-stop-for-me, or whether I’m actually well within my rights. Anyway, when the receptionist phoned me back she asked if we could compromise, which meant me going in at 3.45pm. I explained (again) that I was already leaving work early (I’m supposed to be supervising something after school) and asked again why my appointment had been moved. She told me that someone from Indonesia was coming over to have some lengthy treatment and they were only here for one day. I almost said, “Ah, so this other person’s treatment is much more expensive than mine,” but didn’t. I stuck to my guns, though, and said I couldn’t make it any earlier (because I can’t, not because I won’t, honest). So she offered me 5.30pm today if my crown has arrived from the laboratory.

I will, of course, apologise profusely to the dentist before he gets anywhere near my mouth, then I’ll have a right go after he’s finished.

Anyway, what do you think? Was I “being an ex-pat” or was I just grouchy cos I was ill? Would you have stood your ground or compromised (even though I couldn’t, because I have this thing after school)?

This brings me on to my final point. Living here is great. But living here is also different. These difference emerge gradually. I’m used to the customer always being right. Here, though, the customer is generally wrong and has few rights. Also, things like menus aren’t very flexible. One of my friends was drinking sea breezes the other night – you know, vodka, grapefruit juice and cranberry juice. She didn’t want to drink any more alcohol, but fancied a grapefruit juice, so she asked for one. The waitress said they didn’t sell grapefruit juice. My friend asked how they mixed the sea breeze if they didn’t have grapefruit juice. The waitress replied that, yes, they had grapefruit juice, but they didn’t sell grapefruit juice.

My friend thought for a minute, then asked, “Can I have a sea breeze with no vodka and no cranberry juice, please?”
“Certainly madam,” came the reply.

I Don't Think You're Ready For This Jelly

In this post I told the story of Beyonce Knowle, a classy tribute-band-in-drag act that I fronted with Joe 18 months ago or so. I bemoaned the fact that I had no photographic evidence of the night. Fortunately, Thomkat has once more saved the day and sent me some beauties.

Not sure Joe will be very happy about seeing himself in all his glory.

Note the attention to detail - the tennis shoes and the bling, for example. Can't remember why we both have our socks pulled up. I expect we agreed on it as we were getting changed, for reasons of authenticity. It's the little details that count, after all...

I think I look a bit like Uma Thurman. What do you think?

The Last 385 Yards

Following my request for help recently, Swiss Toni asked "What made you move out in the first place? What's it like? How do your mates cope without you?"

Here's my answer.

My main reason for leaving England was to see some of the world. Prior to last year, the only travelling I’d done had been limited to a few holidays in Spain and France and one Christmas in Australia. I didn’t want to leave particularly; rather, I just knew I had to go. I certainly hadn’t had enough of England. In fact, I loved it. But my confidence had grown a lot in my late twenties and I was sure, for the first time, that I'd be able to cope with living elsewhere. I wanted to see if I could love somewhere else too. It started with a holiday to Thailand and Singapore in April 2004. By May, I had a job here. This was a big decision for me, made very quickly and if it hadn’t happened so quickly, I’d probably have thought about it too much and not come.

It’s a very strange experience to get on a plane with only a one-way ticket. There was so much I was leaving behind and those things, of course, were on my mind as I left. This was the biggest risk I’d ever taken. I was pretty emotional and I felt similar to how I felt as a child when I first went on a school trip for a week. Oddly, though, I didn’t feel any doubts about where I was going. I wasn’t worried about what was on the other side. I was just worried about missing people too much.

Just before I left, I kept meeting people who had already been to Singapore. Indeed, I had a bizarre conversation with the man who collected my rented washing machine.

“Singapore’s great mate,” he remarked in a broad Bristolian accent. “You can get some real cheap gold there. Real cheap and real good quality.” He pronounced “gold” to rhyme with “tooled”, just to give the uninitiated some idea of what a broad Bristolian accent can sound like. I toyed with the idea of informing him that I wasn’t particularly interested in gold, cheap or otherwise, but didn’t. He was certainly sporting some tawdry gold on several of his fingers. He also informed me that there were some “great bars” in Singapore and that “great women” were “available”. I nodded and smiled and said, “Yeah… great… looking forward to it… imagine that,” etc, as one does when someone else thinks that they have the same interests as you and you can’t be bothered to explain otherwise.

Having visited Singapore a couple of months before, I knew that there was more to the place than gold and go-go dancers. It was comforting that I wasn’t going totally into the unknown. However, visiting somewhere and living in the same place are two entirely different things. I saw more of the place in the week I was visiting than in the first six months of living here. But that’s always the way. A while ago, I had a look at a friend’s copy of “Lonely Planet Great Britain” and read the Bristol pages. I discovered that I’d only done about ten per cent of the things it advised visitors to Bristol to do. And it’s the same here. I’ve written about the rain forest reservoirs here before but have still only been to one of them, once. I’ve not been to the art gallery, or the Asian Civilisations Museum. The only times I go to places like Little India or Chinatown are when I have visitors from home. I have never been to Zouk, the biggest and best nightclub here which attracts celebrity djs every weekend. I’ve only been to one gig and that was Norah Jones – hardly rock n roll... although I am going to watch Nana Mouskouri soon…

However, I’m making up for my lack of adventure in Singapore by using my generous teacher holidays to bomb off to somewhere new every few weeks. So far I’ve done Sri Lanka, Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia, Hong Kong and Vietnam. That’s why I came.

I haven’t really missed home. I have missed people, though. Every so often, I go through a spell of thinking about one person or another and I might send them a text or drop them an email or something. I might also just carry on thinking about them without doing anything. I look through old photos from time to time too and listen to music that reminds me of people. It’s reassuring to have those connections.

The strangest time was when I bought my ticket to fly back to England this summer. I booked it about 2 months before I came back and, with every passing day, I became more and more excited about the prospect of being back in Bristol and started to think about it more and more. I suppose it was like the last 385 yards for a marathon runner.

I have to decide in about one month whether I want to stay for another two years once my contract expires.

Still undecided.

Help!

I've got writer's block, or possibly writers' block, again. Is there anything anyone wants me to write about?

So far, since my last post, I've toyed with writing about:

• Why I moved abroad
• Why it's great to be here, but difficult to be away from home
• The man who collected my washing machine before I left Bristol a year ago
• Why I stopped "blogging" regularly
• My experience of England's victory over Australia at Trent Bridge
• Music I've been listening to
• Novels I've read recently
• My experience of bumping into some of my students whilst riding a friend's bike. The friend is female and the bike is pink.

They all look ok in bullet point form, but I can't find a way in. If there is anyone reading, perhaps just write one word in the comments box for me and I'll try to write something about it. Or set me an essay question.

You can tell it's the start of term and I've not got any marking to do yet.