As memories of Oscar Mild and his little alien friend continued to return, I got ready to go to the dentists (again) to get a deep clean from the hygienist. This may sound slightly fetishistic but I love the whole hygienist experience. Having my teeth methodically picked at and scraped and made all new and shiny.. mmm... I think it must tap into something primal to do with being groomed, like an animal. (Likewise haircuts and foot tickling. Perhaps it's just the undivided physical attention.)
The only weird thing was being talked to incessantly by a very nice but extremely chatty hygienist whilst completely unable to reply in any coherent form. An odd one-way conversation; she was babbling away about her neighbours' outrageous £34k wedding (£34k??!! - mine cost £9.50 plus two skull-and-crossbones rings and a meal for four at the Italian) and the TV programme she'd watched about the tattooed vigilante paedophile-catcher... and all I could do was vaguely grunt with my mouth open. I tried to communicate with my eyes – opening them wider on hearing about the happy couple's chocolate fountain and giant Jenga game, and tightening them in a frown at the other tales with the obviously darker theme. All the while the hygienist's stomach rumbled in the background, right behind my reclined head; it was lunchtime. Quite surreal.
When that was over I got into the car, grinned into the rear view mirror to check for bloodstains and vowed never to eat another Mars Bar, let alone go near a chocolate fountain.
From there it was on to B&Q to buy paint and to hear the strange cut-price versions of popular songs piped out into the aisles that make me laugh every time. They always seem to choose songs whose originals have idiosyncratic vocals which just emphasises the ridiculousness of the copies. We often wonder how much they must pay these session singers and musicians to record these covers – is it really cheaper than paying for royalties and PRS licences or whatever it is the originals demand? Today 'Rock The Casbah' got this odd, passionless treatment. Serendipitously, as we got back into the car with a big tin of undercoat and put on the radio, the Clash original came on and all was well again.
Later I walked down to the Co-op to ask if they could spare some old cardboard boxes (we're emptying the kitchen at the weekend in readiness for new units. It'll be like moving house, looking for the bottle-opener and a can of baked beans in the depths of chaos.) I stopped a young lad as he went about his business and gave him my warmest, twinkliest smile. I do believe I was flirting, ever so slightly. It seemed to work and he couldn't do enough for me, running about looking for suitable containers: I'll see if we have anything a bit bigger... and... Will this be OK?... and...Are these enough? “That's brilliant, thank you ever so much” I said as I tucked the flat Doritos boxes under my arms and beamed at him again. Anything to show off my sparkly clean teeth, after all.