The Daily Grind

It’s all money money money at the moment.

Or rather I’ve got no money money money.

I’ve just returned from a trip to the friendly neighbourhood dentist – the gloriously toothy Dr Hassan – who has given my molars and canines the once over with her hooked implements of stainless steel. The diagnosis is not good. They’re clean – yes – but I’m apparently grinding my teeth while I sleep with the result that they’re beginning to resemble Neolithic grindstones.

The solution is a night guard. It’s like a gum shield but far more expensive.

So what is causing me to grind my teeth, Dr Hassan asks me pleasantly.

Oh the usual I reply: money worries – mortgage, fuel prices, child care costs – all money that I haven’t got.

I know the feeling, she replies with a fragrant sigh, but the night guard should prevent your teeth from wearing away to nothing. In the meantime you must do what you can to cut down on the amount of stress that you are under (I nod obediently). By the way the night guard will probably cost about £200...

Grind grind gnash gnash... cue the sound of enamel splintering in my mouth.

Ooh, don’t worry I can fix that says Dr Hassan... but it’ll cost you...

*Sigh*

And as for all my efforts to alleviate my money worries by getting an additional job... out of all the vacancies I’ve applied for only one has actually bothered to ring me back and dangle the promise of an imminent interview before me...

But that was over a week ago and I’ve heard absolutely nothing since; the mooted day for the possible interview has now long since lapsed and I’ve basically given up ever hearing from them again.

I can’t believe how hard it’s proving to pick up a simple part-time job. We’re talking menial labour here for God’s sake. It shouldn’t be this difficult! Should it?

I’ve come the conclusion that I am just eminently unemployable. Which is worrying. I’m “unemployable” but am employed full time by the local council.

Hmm.

I’m trying not to read too much into that...

You’ll Be A Man, My Son

The big news this week is that Tom has cut his first tooth.

Amid much screaming, many tears and multiple applications of Calpol, Mr Toofy poked his head up from the red welter of Tom’s gums sometime on Monday afternoon. A companion tooth – I can only assume a Mrs Toofy – is also well on her way to studding Tom’s mouth with some beautiful calcium based bling.

My first reaction was to sigh proudly and to announce that soon he’ll be shaving and riding unsafe motorbikes. They grow up so quickly these days.

Thankfully crawling, walking, potty training and coordinating the PlayStation controls (rather than chewing them) – not to mention an entire school career – are all still ahead of Tom so I guess I can look forward to having him at home for a little while longer.

It’s so nice to have a full nest.

Colic

I’m pleased to report that baby Tom continues to thrive – his veritable life of Riley only spoilt by the advent of colic whose wearing effects we are all resigned to enduring for the next 3 months or so. After this point the health visitor assures us that the colic should disappear and we might be lucky enough to have a small period of peace and baby prosperity before the teething cycle begins...

Oh joy.

To be fair – aside from the one hugely troublesome feed when the colic appears to be at its worst (which seems to hit Tom in the early evening on a daily basis) – the lad is doing well. He’s a real guzzler and is hitting his ideal birth weight target regularly. 9lb something when he was last weighed on Tuesday. I know I should have the exact amount indelibly pressed into the soft putty of my mind but I’m a bloke and we don’t record such things in this way... if at all.

Karen and I are shattered. Whoever said looking after a baby was bloody hard work was under-exaggerating. Having had the day off on Monday to give Karen a break I’m not sure which is more tiring: staying at home looking after Tom all day or going to work and then coming home to help out with the evening feeds.

I confess I’m a wuss but am I enjoying it? Weirdly – yes. Even during the darkest hours of baby-care fatigue the thought is always in my mind to make the most of it as Tom is growing so quickly that all this will soon be mere memory. He’s gone from being almost lost in the bottom of his Moses basket to nearly three-quarters filling it already.

He’s getting quite chunky which is very satisfying to see. A “swollen angel”, in fact, to quote David Sylvian...

With a hunger cry that can drown out any other earthly noise in a 12 mile radius.

Town Cryer or opera singer may both be options for him later in life...

Me, I’m looking into somnambulism...

Gnashers

I’m nursing a sore mouth this morning.

A trip to the dentist yesterday resulted in my pearly-yellows undergoing the orthodontic rigours of the “scrape and polish”. Geez. It sounds like some sort of underworld slang for the kind of service offered by a very down-at-heel (i.e. no heels at all) prostitute who operates from behind the back of a burger van on a Saturday night.

Urgh. Hold the mayo.

Sorry, that was spectacularly uncalled for but pain has a rather souring effect on my funny bone. And no, that was not a euphemism...

Dr Hassan, my dentist, is very thorough and God bless her, she scraped, hacked and polished at my choppers until my gums bled. Literally. And four hours later they were still bleeding.

In fact I spent much of yesterday with the taste of blood constantly in my mouth. It was like permanently having a McDonald’s hamburger rolling and slopping over my molars. Or something reconstituted and burger shaped bought from a burger van that operates on a Saturday night.

Not pleasant.

The worst thing about the “scrape and polish”, as any “scrape and polish” customer will tell you, is not so much the pain (the level of which was really quite surprising – either that or I’m just a complete wuss) but the noise. Everybody winces at the sound of chalk being scraped down a blackboard... but imagine that very same noise being situated right inside your mouth, inside your very head, with the added discomfort of pressure being applied with pin-prick precision along various points of your aching jaws.

My feet were literally curling inside my boots while Dr Hassan carried out her work.

Most discomforting of all was the welding mask that Dr Hassan wore while she set about sand-blasting my teeth to Hollywood-esque perfection. I half expected to find a cow-bar welded to my lower lip when I finally got out of the chair.

Expect to see me racing over rugged terrain and through mountainous foothills the next time a Freelander advert hits your TV screen. I’ll be the one in the background bouncing Aberdeen Angus off my chin and crashing unscathed through wooden farm fences...