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 ...
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?
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
It's 22.32 and I'm waiting for a sponge cake to attain that perfect, illusive golden brown. It's a birthday cake for our eldest son. Earlier this evening, I asked him, 'Will you have time for cake before you go out with your mates tomorrow night?'
'Oh, yes - can I have an Edinburgh Castle cake?'
Where in the name of heaven did he get that idea?! I'm by no stretch of the imagination a Delia Smith. I bake plain sponge cakes, sandwiched together with butter icing (if there's time) or jam (if not). I've been known to make cakes in the shape of single numbers, but this guy's TWENTY tomorrow. There will be one cake. A round one, and the closest it'll come to Edinburgh Castle is an uneven surface! There will be no bagpipes, and no Tattoo. (Maybe I could find some tartan ribbon in my
lunch-hour tomorrow, though?)
The heroine of Allison Pearson's, I don't know how she does it, distresses bought Christmas mince-pies so that no-one knows she didn't bake them. I don't do that - I just distress myself.
It's like this. I work full-time and a few years ago, I did a PhD part-time, at the same time. My contemporaries might think I'm nuts, but they do have the insight to imagine what the experience might have been like. On the other hand, people older than me are grudgingly impressed, but I'm afraid they think I'm a selfish parent for doing it. After all, their generation didn't work while raising children, let alone work AND study. So, to atone for the neglect that I imagine other people suspect, I try to do the things that a stay-at-home mother might do. And I bake birthday cake at 22.32. How could I not?
|More Norwich than Edinburgh!|
I can't help thinking there's a flaw in the argument somewhere, but I'm too tired to work it out, Doctor of Philosophy or not!