Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Not so much a Bear as a Mère with a Sore Head

Toothache's a real pain, isn't it?  When your dentist cheerfully tells you that your root canal treatment 13 years ago has come to the end of its useful life, and no more can be done for this particular tooth ... 

Owch.

I've got antibiotics.  I've taken paracetamol.  But I'm stuck with the sore tooth until a week today, because it's a busy time at work.  I hasten to add that no-one has said I can't go to the dentist this week, but - well, I don't feel I can.  

And this evening I ventured forth to get Student Son's return ticket to uni.  With my sore mouth.  (No, I wasn't going to buy the rail-ticket with my sore mouth, but the sore mouth had to drive to town with me.) The whole point was to avoid the £7 postage, which seemed a rip-off.

A silly old lady was at the car-park barrier.  She'd changed her mind and didn't want to go in the car-park.  (The sign did say, CAR .... oh, forget it! Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.)  Into reverse, and back she came.  Fortunately, her hearing was no worse than mine, and my irritated horn-blowing stopped her before she hit me.  However, she was determined to reverse away from that barrier, so I got out of the way, annoyed a taxi-driver who then couldn't get out of the taxi-rank, and finally, I parked.  

It turned out I'd come too late in the evening to buy an advance-booking.  I paid my parking ticket - less than £7, and let's pretend I didn't use any petrol or have other plans for my evening - as you can tell, a sore mouth doesn't improve my temper!  But at the end of the day, I still have no ticket.  Then I thought of a solution.   He can buy his own ticket, and I'll transfer the funds.  Why, oh why didn't I think of that in the first place?


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