I hope you aren’t getting sick of me.

Not that I really give a flying fuck. Considerations aside, I’m writing.

It’s never easy.  One word at a time.

Fuck, the foul disgusting tasteless orange with rock hard pips  broke my tooth, fractured it and splinters are stabbing my gums.

I’m going to have to see a dentist now.

Nothing like a broken tooth that’s causing unnecessary pain to help you act upon it.

The pain killer cost me one dollar and fifty cents, my currency.

It was fucking cheap.

Eat first, said Kenny.

Eat what?

Just eat some bread, anything, so that the medicine doesn’t give you ulcers.

It wasn’t Tramadol, that stuff gets you high. It was something else, and it was oh so much more subtle.

Firstly, it killed the pain. Secondly, it got me off my fucking tits. I do wear a  training bra, don’t you know.

Kenny is my computer guy. He’s in the process of ordering me a battery for my Mac Air.

The ipad Mini is working. I got a new screen for it.

I missed my ipad. It’s always played  music so well.

Kenny recommends a dentist.

I’ve been walking all day and I have mother of rashes between my thighs.

But I’m going to see a dentist.

Shards of teeth are dangling and other shards are lancing my gum.

The dentist prods a bit, pulls out the teeth shrapnel.

Oh,  a cavity. I look up, the customer I saw waiting in the lounge area is inside the dental clinic. He’s acting as translator. His name is from an Arhurian legend.

It’s not Augusta. No, it’s not Thomas Aquanius. But man can he translate.

‘You  have cavity, blood flow in gums no good, she’ll do a root canal and a few more treatments.’

The dentist must have asked him to translate. So much for patient doctor confindentiality. But I’m not complaining.

The female dentist, Miss Nenneck, has pulled out a long nerve from my tooth – she even shows me, this is my own B grade movie. That’s what’s been causinig you pain, she said, through the ‘free’ translator.

Arthur, was that his name? Edward. Fuck, I can’t think. Man, those meds are kicking in.

She injected me with something. It had to be novacaine. I’m almost tap dancing, and ibu (auntie) the assistant, is decked in her hijab, and is  coughing and spluttering beside me, and the dentist has  one instrument pried against my lip. It fucking hurts.

‘Hay gentle on the pressure, love,’  I say. She eases up.

I’m tap dancing out of the clinic. The pain is gone and won’t come back.

There must be more trouble, I think I’ll follow it.

Ibraham, that’s his fucking name.

‘No, it’s Abraham,’ says the translator, who has entered my thoughts long after I’ve had my treatment, ‘like Abraham Lincoln, but close.’


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