Following yesterday’s appointment with the oral surgery specialist at Blackburn Hospital, two things have happened…
* This morning, I received a call telling me that the tooth extraction and all out assault on the underlying infection will take place on 7th March. That means I can begin taking the 14 days of antibiotics I have on standby. The problem is that they come in capsules, which I can’t yet swallow. So, I’m having to break the little buggers open, mix them with water, and ‘drink’ them via my stomach peg.
On the subject of my stomach peg, I’ll have to go back to ‘eating’ by using those bastard milkshakes again should further treatment be required to eradicate the infection in my jawbone.
I’m really looking forward to that eventuality.
* I’m making a will. Although I presume that, should the worst happen, everything would automatically go to Kirsty and the boys, I really don’t know.
And I’d rather not risk it.
So, yesterday, I ordered one of those ‘Make Your Last Will and Testament’ packs online, and it arrived about an hour ago. I’ll be taking a look at it and hopefully filling it out this evening.
It’s a strange thing to think about doing. I’ve genuinely never considered making a will before. Whether that’s irresponsible of me or not, I simply don’t know. But, with yesterday’s news adding an extra layer of doubt pasta onto the health lasagna of me getting through all this, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
That’s a bizarre phrase, isn’t it? Or maybe you don’t think so. But, I do.
Of course, that may be because – up until as late as LAST MONTH – I always presumed the oft-used phrase referred to drinking straws. You know, the stripy plastic things you get with a cold drink.
It had NEVER occurred to me that ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’ might be a piece of organic straw, as in the dried stalks of cereal plants.
Which would be 100% more likely.
Organic straw, or some form of it, is very likely to be used as either or both bedding and food for large animals, including camels. And it’s not unreasonable to suggest that load-bearing creatures – like camels – would be used to transport said straw from one location to another.
Meaning that there would be such a thing as too much straw for the camel to carry.
Therefore, describing a situation as being a single step too far could easily be explained as being the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Whereas, in the dark recesses of my head, I’ve got some weirdo stacking plastic drinking straws onto camels, presumably to see if they can break a little-known world record for balancing cheap drinking apparatus on and around a camel’s hump until such time as there is an ear-splitting CRACK, and said ungulate collapses in agony to the sand, screaming out in pain.
Imagine how many plastic straws that would take!
Mind you, this isn’t the first time I fell victim to the hidden shadows of my own imagination.
As a teenager in the 1980s, I was right up there with the latest trends, in particular – music. As a result I was, as you can probably already guess, a huge fan of Elvis Presley.
No, really. I was.
I collected Elvis LPs. I had Elvis posters all over my bedroom wall. I even had my Mum stitch the name ‘ELVIS’ into the back of my nylon, sleeveless jacket – like some kind of time-travel sick Marty McFly.
I remember clearly where I was when the news of Elvis Presley’s death was announced, on the evening of 16th August 1977. I was sitting at one end of our long living room in Haddon Avenue in Liverpool, watching TV and straining to hear the news of the King’s demise with the set turned down to its lowest possible volume.
Why was the volume so low?
Because my parents were at the other end of the room while my Mum gave a statement to a female police officer about a flasher who had jumped out in front of us earlier that day.
My sister and I were both with her, and I vaguely remember the incident (although, oddly, not as clearly as I recall listening to news concerning the death of Elvis). The flasher (as we always called them in the UK) was one of your classic sexual fiends, in that he operated the old routine of…
JUMP IN FRONT OF WOMEN AND/OR CHILDREN
WHIP OPEN THE DIRTY RAINCOAT
WIGGLE THE FUN-SIZED MARS BAR
SNARL LIKE A CORNERED BADGER
CLOSE AFOREMENTIONED RAINCOAT
SCAMPER AWAY IN SEARCH OF A NEW TARGET
Good old British traditions, eh?
Where was I?
Oh yes, Elvis…
One of the songs in Elvis’s catalogue that confused me was ‘Wear My Ring Around Your Neck’.
Here it is…
…and here are the specific lyrics which caused my befuddlement…
Won’t you wear my ring around your neck
To tell the world I’m yours, by heck
Let them see your love for me
And let them see by the ring around your neck
You might be able to see where I’m going with this but, for years, I could not for the life of me understand how Elvis could get a ring around his girlfriend’s throat.
Surely, rings are far too small?
To wrap it around a girl’s neck, even a girl with a particularly slim build, you’d have to crush her spine and windpipe to the circumference of one of your fingers.
And, even if a pretty beau could survive such a violent token of love, how would you get the ring there?
Is it forcibly pushed down over the head, or cut apart with a tool such as a hacksaw, then welded back together once the neck had been wrung thinly enough and the two halves were in place on either side?
I promise I was in my 40s before the concept of a ring on a chain entered my head.
And, they let me breed!
So, there you have it. I have a date for my oral surgery, and I’m making a will.