Fangs for nothing

I've been a bit below par this week. It started the week before, when biting down on food made one tooth feel very funny indeed. It felt like had a small grain of something stuck to my tooth and when I bit down on it, a pain shot into my gum. I thought it must just be that it was extra sensitive for some reason, so soldiered on a couple of days until last Saturday I was brushing my teeth and a filling dropped out.

Sod's law it was the weekend and my dentist was not open. I had heard from a friend that you can buy temporary filling kits, so I nipped out to the local chemist and bought one. As Kay and her dentist husband live nearby, I popped in to ask if he might help me with the temporary filling until I could see my dentist. On investigation, he broke the bad news. The filling had fallen out because part of the tooth was cracked and would not hold a filling. As he was not in his surgery, he could not say without an xray whether the crack went below the gum or not, but, if it did, he feared the whole tooth would have to be extracted and would be unlikely to be saved. I must admit, I could feel the cracked side of the tooth wobbling terribly and every time I tried to talk or swallow, my tongue caught it and the wobbly bit sent a pain shooting into my head.

I soldiered on all that weekend, unable to eat or even drink properly and rang my dentist first thing Monday morning. Thankfully they were able to fit me in as an emergency, although I did not see my usual dentist but one of her junior staff. After an xray, the young dentist confirmed that the tooth was beyond saving as the crack did go well below the gum. I agreed to have the tooth extracted there and then. It took him well over 20 minutes to rock the little blighter back and forth, as it refused to budge. I even joked he might need to use gunpowder. I began to panic that he would never manage to extract it, as it did seem rather out of his depth to manage, when eventually he confirmed it was out.  I came out £270 poorer with a face looking like Quasimodo.

I've not been allowed to eat hot or chewy food or drink hot drinks for the last 6 days. The good news is, I've lost 3 pounds and reverted to my pre-Christmas weight. I've had a banging headache too which I think was due to all the pulling and tugging on my skull. I've even got a bruise on the outside of my cheek where the dentist tried to get more traction. I look as if I've done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. I've cancelled all gym classes and other engagements this week and felt sorry for myself. I'm hoping normality will resume this coming week.

But in the words of the poetess Pam Ayres ......

My Village

The little enclave in London where I have lived for 46 years has always been a pleasant area to live in and houses a population of about 45,000. It has always had a peaceful village-y feel to it - a small sleepy High Street, old churches, a village green, one cinema and lots of pubs, yet it boasts nine railway stations and a tram stop connecting us within 15 minutes to all the major hubs in Central London. We are a ten-minute drive from the Kent countryside too, so have the choice of either visiting busy inner London or picturesque Kent villages, depending on our mood. We also have two enormous parks in our midst - one quite wild with an 18th century mansion and woodland; the other more cultivated with a lake. Greg and I chose this area for all those qualities. Greg came from rural Lincolnshire, so was not happy living in the hubbub of inner London. I had been raised in Lewisham - a multicultural inner London borough which because of its proximity to the docks had been badly bombed during the war and very much a place of deprivation in the 1950s and 60s, so I welcomed the village-y feel as an upgrade.

Since the arrival of the internet, where many people shop online, the high street shops began to close gradually and in their place coffee shops and restaurants sprang up. In the space of 800 yards, I can probably count at least five Turkish restaurants, three Italian, a Greek, a Lebanese, two Thai, a few Indian and two kebab shops, a West African restaurant, various pub chains, a dessert shop, an ice cream parlour and at least 15 cafes. Sadly the number of shops where you can go in to buy a gift for someone or browse has fallen dramatically. The only shops where you cannot get a service online are hairdressers and nail salons, so many of these have sprung up too. We have four of the major supermarkets still here, but all the banks have closed to move to a neighbouring suburb, so we can only get banking services at the local Post office in which the queue spills out into the street because of the demand. It has meant that the High Street is quite quiet during the day, but comes alive at night when the restaurants and pub chains are heaving.

As I say, until recently, it has been a sleepy village sort of place, but in the last few years it has changed. We have gangs going around stealing cars (I am advisedly informed to take to Eastern Europe) and stealing tools out of workmen's vans to resell at car boot fairs. There's been quite a few mobile phone snatchers riding bikes. In addition, because we are sandwiched between two relatively deprived areas, we have trouble with warring gangs and there have been quite a few stabbings, They are almost becoming a weekly event and so much so that nobody bats an eyelid. This week a completely innocent person was walking past a supermarket minding their own business and was set upon randomly by someone who proceeded to bash them on the head. The poor victim died in hospital a few days ago.

It is quite concerning how life has changed recently. I do not want to be one of those people who constantly say "in my day, we used to ....", but it seems life has changed quite a bit over the last twenty years alone and not necessarily for the better.

Flight or fright

There has been a Channel 4 series on TV (see here) where a clinic in Amsterdam can cure people of their phobias. Apparently getting people to confront them until their fear is right off the height of its scale and then giving them a single beta blocker renders them perfectly OK to face their phobia the next day with no problems at all. 

It is amazing what people have phobias about.  Quite common on this programme were spiders, snakes, frogs, birds and mice. Less common and in some ways difficult to comprehend were balloons and clowns. One really intriguing one was a fear of dachshunds. The man hated the little short legs and long body. He didn't have a problem with other dogs, but dachshunds caused him to go into extreme panic.

The trigger for phobias usually starts way back in childhood when a parent passes on a phobia (say, a child seeing its mother freak out in the proximity of a spider, which then ingrains into that child the fear that spiders are horrible and to be avoided). It can also originate from a personal experience someone has that then induces the fear of that reoccurring. 

I can't say I personally like spiders or snakes, but not enough to be terrified of them and if I find a spider in the house, I tend to dispose of it myself. My mother was terrified of stag beetles and to this day I cannot bear to be outside in May when they fly about at dusk. It's the size of them and the fact they tend to bump into things that worries me. We tend to get a lot in South London and Kent and I am always glad when June comes and they are gone forever.

Male stag beetle

My biggest phobia, however, used to be eating out in public. I was fine until I was about 19. Then one evening when I was at university, I went out for a meal in a restaurant with a boyfriend. As the meal was served, I took a few mouthfuls and then came over all hot and faint. I found I couldn't swallow and felt everyone was looking at me. Of course, nobody was, or, if they were, probably just glancing across the room rather than AT me. My heart was pounding and I felt sick. I was forced to stand up and rush out of the restaurant for fresh air and never went back to finish the meal.  After that, I was unable to eat out in public for many many years. I would avoid invites to weddings and work business meetings, where I knew a meal was involved. The very thought of it would make me feel sick. I'd make all manner of excuses. This phobia remained with me for a good two decades after that, including my own wedding, which caused no end of problems and extreme panic leading up to it.

It was really only after Greg died that I had to put my big girl pants on and face the fact that sometimes I had no choice. And to my delight, I managed to overcome it in time. Now, I don't think twice about accepting invitations to dine out and have no problems at all.  In fact, at Kay's wedding, not only did I sit at the top table and face 80 people while I ate, I also took on the Father of the Bride speech in front of them all with no qualms at all. 

When I think back, the trigger probably originates from when I was at secondary school. We used to have school dinners, six pupils to a table. We used to help ourselves to the main course from tureens on each table. Only once we had finished eating that, would the kitchen staff take those tureens away and then bring the dessert tureens to each table. One day, I had helped myself to  one too many boiled potatoes for my main course and had left one on my plate. Our history teacher was on lunch duty, came and stood over me making me eat it while everyone watched, eager to get on with being served the dessert. The potato was cold and dry and difficult to swallow, but that teacher still stood over me until I had eaten every last bit. Only then would she give permission for the main course tureen to be taken away and the dessert tureen to be served. I swear that was most likely what caused me such anguish for those twenty odd years I suffered that phobia. Being a teacher is a very respected profession, but do they realise what damage they can do? I bet she never ever realised what harm she was doing me but what gave her the right to force-feed me? She probably won't remember me, but I have never ever forgotten her.

Solid as a rock

Earlier this week, I decided to educate myself and join the posh classes..... I went to the opera. In my lifetime I have only been to a few operas, mainly when I was in my twenties and living in Germany, but have not been to any since. One I have never seen is Madame Butterfly, so, as it was on for one night only in my local theatre, I decided to go along.

A friend, who is a massive opera fan and was a regular visitor to the English National Opera at the London Colosseum, before she became housebound at the age of 90, advised me to a take a box of tissues with me as the story is quite sad. I got there way too early as I had left the car behind and travelled by bus, but settled into my seat and watched the hordes of people coming in clutching glasses of wine and in some cases food!! When did that become a thing in the theatre? The opera, written by Puccini was sang in Italian but thankfully there were surtitles above the stage with the English translation projected,  so it helped to know what they were singing about. I had studied the synopsis of the plot, so had a vague idea of what was going to happen. I was well prepared when at the very end, Madame Butterfly stabs herself to death which was quite dramatic.

At the very end the cast came on stage one by one to take a bow and the audience clapped and cheered as each of the main characters brought up the rear. But that was not the end of it. The opera had been played by the Ukrainian National Opera Company (both singers and orchestra) and they began to hold up an enormous Ukrainian flag whilst singing in Ukrainian. The surtitles projected the English translation about them loving their country and fighting for freedom. I kid you not, every one of the audience, well over 800 of us - myself included - took to our feet and clapped wildly and cheered. It was so emotional as we obviously all wanted to show our solidarity to them in the light of what had happened in the last week or so. They in turn seemed stunned by our reaction as maybe they don't usually sing that patriotic song at the end of their performances or, if they do, maybe the audiences don't normally react so demonstratively with a standing ovation. Either way, it was THAT that brought me to tears rather than Madame Butterfly. I think everyone felt the same, namely that we wanted to show the Ukrainian people we stood shoulder to shoulder with them.

The irony of it was that Madame Butterfly had fallen in love with an American naval officer who toyed with her emotions and then discarded her. Even when he knew she had a son by him, he proposed to take the son back to America with him and be raised by the American woman he was now married to. It was the ultimate cause of her suicide of honour. It just goes to show you can't trust some Americans, I thought, as I made my way out of the theatre. There's one I can distinctly think of right now.

Fifteenth anniversary

This week on 6 March sees the 15th anniversary of Greg's death. For me, fifteen years as a widow. 

Last week some choir friends and I went to see the latest Bridget Jones film. I won't give too much away, but in the first few minutes you learn that Bridget is now a widow and that her Mr Darcy was killed whilst out in Sudan on a humanitarian mission. She is having to cope with raising two small children. Her friends are urging her to get back out there and find someone else. It was hilarious in places and my friends came out buzzing with excitement. I didn't want to spoil the mood, so said I had thought it lovely too. In reality I found it hard to watch as it touched so many raw nerves.

It is true it gets easier as time goes by, but the grief never entirely fades away. It is just different. I still yearn for what could have been, what we could have done in our retirement together - places to see and things to do. It is just not the same on your own. I try to keep busy (sometimes too busy) with things that distract me - volunteering for foodbank, the park, gym, choir - but it never gets easier, when you come home to an empty house, climb the stairs and turn out the lights on your own. Night after night after night. Not easy when everywhere you look you see so many elderly couples still full of the joys and holding hands.

It's not been good for him either. He's missed out so much on the world news he loved and worked for - goodness, what he would have to say on the current world situation; he's missed out on the success of his daughter at university and becoming a medical doctor; and he's missed out on her falling in love and marrying a wonderful man.

His death was of his own making which also makes it harder to accept sometimes. If only he had stopped drinking. But addiction is hard to overcome and I guess in the end, he was too troubled and too far deep to stop. For those caught up in addiction, look here for how things could turn out if you don't stop. It doesn't make easy reading, but it may turn you against what will happen, if your addiction takes hold. If it helps one person, this blog will have proved its usefulness.