Superstitious? Not me! (touch wood)

Had a pretty good day yesterday, which may come as a surprise to anyone who lives in fear of "Friday the Thirteenth".  Such people would also be horrified to learn that I was booked in for my six-monthly check-up at the dentist.

Oddly enough, I quite enjoy going to the dentist. My parents were from the generation that hadn't fully grasped the concept of oral hygiene. My Dad had all of his teeth removed before he was fifty, and I have a dim recollection of going to a dental hospital in London with my Mum, when I was a toddler. She had to have her gums scraped to treat gingivitis. It sounds utterly barbaric. Luckily I wasn't allowed inside the treatment room, and spent the entire time, fascinated by the enormous 'metal-cage' style lifts, as they clanked their way up and down the building.

In spite of this apparent lack of care, my parents ensured that I went for regular dental checks, and by the end of my teens, I had accumulated a mouthful of mercury amalgam fillings and a couple of spaces where some wisdom teeth used to live. When I left home, my visits to the dentist got very sporadic. With all the moving about from place to place they sort of got lost, and there were a couple of five year gaps between check-ups. Eventually I wised up, and taking a deep breath nipped out from work one lunch-time, and walked into the nearest dental surgery.

It was a shambles. There was brick dust, wheelbarrows and bits of timber cluttering the reception area, and there were two cement- spattered builders, studying some structural detail in the ceiling.

I couldn't see any receptionist, so asked one of the builders when the place would be open for business.

"Oh, we should be finished this time next week."

"OK", I replied "I guess I can wait 'til then."

"Why, have you got a problem?"

"No... not really. I just need to register and have a check up"

"Oh. Well, that's alright. We can do that now. I'll get the appointment book"

"Errrr" I faltered, "No. I was, er... looking for a dentist..."

"We are dentists."

Strange, but true.

A couple of weeks later, I was seated in the big chair, and the guy that I'd last seen brandishing a pointing trowel was giving my teeth an MOT. 

Let's face it; after an introduction as absurd as that, I couldn't possibly have gone anywhere else, and in some subtle way, it has made the whole dentistry business less threatening.

I'm delighted to report that my teeth passed muster again, and to celebrate, I went for a wander around B&Q. 

The 200mm loft insulation is back in stock. (Wooo-Hooo!!) 

It's even cheaper than the last lot I used, so I immediately bought four triple-packs of the stuff.

(Buy now while stocks last, 'goodoldjac'. Reclaim the space previously filled with ice-skates and cardboard)   

When I got to the check-out there were three other blokes who had all clearly had the same idea, as you couldn't move for poorly loaded trolleys stacked with teetering rolls of rock-wool. I'd taken the precaution of buying some nylon rope to stop the whole lot rolling off my trolley, but my feeling of superiority was rudely punctured when I left the building, and started across the car-park. 

The car-park at B&Q is not flat, in fact it has a wicked gradient. I was just about half way back to The Tractor, when one of my rolls of rock-wool slipped out from under the rope. I lunged to stop it falling onto the tarmac, which set the trolley swivelling wildly, and the other three rolls tumbling off the other side.

It could have been worse. 

At least I didn't end up careering down the car park with the trolley, apparently in hot pursuit of four enormous swiss-rolls, as they ricocheted off the various parked cars and steam-rollered hapless shoppers.

 

But it was close.