Comic Cuts - 9 September 2016

The humdrumery of life continues. Midweek I went to the dentists to (finally!) have one of my back molars removed. This is the tooth that was originally going to be crowned, but as we began taking the final steps (I'd even paid the deposit), my dentist decided that the tooth couldn't be saved and removal was the best option.

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.

My latest book, "Iron Mask" The Story of Harry Bensley's "Walking Round the World" Hoax, is now being stocked at the delightful Wivenhoe Bookshop. Someone from the local history society had spotted a copy of the book I'd given to the tiny local museum for their reference and asked at the shop if they had a copy. The first I knew of it was when an e-mail arrived asking if copies were available.

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.