Yesterday, I went in for surgery to have part of my head removed.
I was only metaphorically having Wisdom removed, but curiously I did
feel a bit more stupid afterwards. Those who live by metaphor, die by
metaphor I suppose.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I would, before I forget, like to make a special shout-out for Mr Nils
Löfgren, the inventor of my local anaesthetic of choice. Hats off,
Nils. Owe you one.
During the 45 min procedure, I was complimented on the strength of my
jaw. Which was nice. I tried to make some comment about "having taken
a few punches in my time" but it just came out like I was gargling a
Lady Gaga number.
The £150 bill did rather make me long for a National Health Service
free at the point of delivery. Anybody remember that?
I remained hopeful that the cash reward from the supernatural
nighttime bone collector would offset my costs. Although I was
acutely aware we are living in days where stem cells can grow new
gnashers in vitro. And that's the tooth.
I completed my operation and asked if there was a wheelchair to take
me to the door and then I gave them some flannel about how it was no
problem and how I didn't mind walking anyway. In fact, during the off
the whole episode have to say I was downright hilarious. Not to
mention a brave little soldier.
The word martyr is overused, tarnished by its
"I'm-a-credit-to-suicide" radical connotations which has removed it so
far from its proper uses.
These uses as far as I can see are two.
Firstly in relation to me in exactly the situation I have just been in.
And secondly as a well recognised abbreviation of everybody's
favourite red fruit that thinks it's a vegetable.
I placed the evicted tooth under my pillow, left the front door wide
open all night so there were no access issues and waited for faerie
lore. Sadly it turned out that the shiny 10p (minimum) that I was
expecting, was replaced only by a small pool of dried blood and
dribble.
That's a recession that is biting hard.
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