Friday, September 09, 2016
Comic Cuts - 9 September 2016
It's a deep tooth, so I was referred to a specialist. Mel and I—she being my "responsible adult"—arrived at 9:15 am, signed a couple of forms, and I was in the dental surgeon's chair by 9:30. An anaesthetist said, "You'll feel a little scratch on the back of your... there, that's it," and that's all I remember.
The next thing I'm aware of is sitting in the little recovery room mumbling my date of birth and, for all I know, my bank account details. The nurse who deciphered my answer (I had a mouth packed with gauze) left and ordered us a taxi. I'm a bit hazy on the taxi ride, but remember getting home around 11. Mel nipped off to pick up some prescription tablets that they wanted me to take and I sat on the sofa, a bit dazed, watching the TV.
I decided to sleep off the effects of the anaesthetic, so I got my head down for a couple of hours, waking up again around 1:45. Apart from the bloody gauze, which I removed, and a slight jaw ache, which was being controlled by painkillers, I felt surprisingly chipper. You hear horror stories of people coming down from anaesthetic, but not for one moment did I believe I was at Hogwarts. I spent the afternoon splitting my time between the TV and catching up with a bit of work; had my first cup of coffee at 6:30—having let it cool right down—and had dinner at 8:30—again, having let it cool down.
Everything felt so normal that I let my guard down and had a moment of panic when, taking an Ibuprofin, I didn't swallow and the pill wedged itself into the hole left by the removed tooth. I had to fish it out with my fingers in front of a mirror, which won't register so high on the ten-point scale of, say, picking up a kitten to pulling a bloody body out of a foxhole at The Somme, but which was, momentarily, the worst thing that had ever happened to anyone, anywhere, ever.
So I exchanged slippers for shoes and walked the 100 yards to the shop and dropped one in (the last one I had to hand, as it happened). Fortunately, I'd just ordered up some more for myself, which arrived this week, so I was able to fulfill the order and issued my first invoice for the book. A whole six copies, the profits from which immediately went towards buying us dinner down at the Crown. "Towards", not "paid for". This book-selling lark doesn't pay so well.
You can still buy it from Bear Alley Books, but hopefully this will get it to a different audience.
Random scans. Couldn't resist putting together a handful of covers celebrating my getting doped up to the eyeballs.