Posts Tagged ‘dentist’

Crosstown traffic
All you do is slow me down
– Jimi Hendrix, 1968

The “Liddle Fact” inside the cap on my orange juice said, “The average person spends 2 weeks of their life waiting at stoplights.” The average person clearly does not live in the National Capital of Oz. Crossing Northbourne Ave, the main drag outside work, takes two full stoplight cycles, in which everyone has their go separately (including turning lanes). Yes, you have to watch the lights change TWICE just to get across the road to the nearest greasy spoon for a sandwich. And TWICE again on the way back. Incredible.

Had a hysterical moment yesterday when I finally faced the fact the temporary crown, for which I travelled all the way back to Slobart, had broken. That’s industrial strength denial, considering the little plastic cap actually broke on Saturday, four days ago. Since I couldn’t just pop back to Slobart to Dr W for a quick fix, I had to seek a local solution – which I was not emotionally equipped to do. So I just pretended it hadn’t happened.

But of course some little corner of my brain with not enough to do kept worrying away at the problem, and finally sent up some mental flares that the frontal lobes saw – and flipped out. (It’s no wonder I grind my teeth in my sleep. I think that was why the temporary crown broke in the first place.) Typically I did not remember any of the handy advice helpful people have contributed, and in a panic rang the dentist at a geographic point exactly halfway between work and home, somehow reasoning closer was better. After a bit of undignified grovelling they found me an emergency spot this afternoon.

And voila! Repair completed. No pain, and the dentist was nice, quick and efficient. Although I’ve never done my own suction before. (When he said, “Hold out your right hand,” my paranoia nodes lit up, but all he did was hand me the spit vacuum, positioned it and told me to hold still. Which, terrified I would hoover up half my tongue, I did.)

And now it should be okay until the real thing is installed.

Yes, sometimes my life is banal, even to me.


Read Full Post »

I get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter
– Tori Amos, Winter, 1992

Took a flying visit to Tasnarnia at the weekend to see about some more dental work. This may seem a little extreme, unless you appreciate my pathological suspicion of the dental profession developed from a species of practical aversion therapy (common to many people 35 and older who remember when dentists used to hurt). I trust Dr W with the kind of fierce loyalty born of a lifetime of distrust.

Anyway, dentist aside, it was a lovely weekend. Caught up with just enough familiar faces (but not too many). The winter in Slobart was, if no better, then certainly no worse than Can’tberra – clear skies, relatively mild days. Just enough to get you rugged up without being bogged down by excessive layers.

Talking about layers, though, there was something new that I hadn’t seen in Slobart before.

I turned a corner near Parliament House, and there were these bike racks – clothed for winter.

Some canny knitter had dressed the steel semicircles with a kind of legwarmer. Rackwarmer. Pipewarmer? The mind boggles.

As you can see the knitting is of pretty reasonable quality – involving patterns and alternating colours – and all neatly sown in place. But no sign of who perpetrated the act, or why.

Just down the road the guerrilla knitters had struck again. This time they’d taken to the statue of Douglas Mawson and his dogs at Constitution Dock. Again, all the pieces were made to fit and sown in place neatly. The pink legwarmers are a joy. And the dogs were not forgotten; one had matching legwarmers, the other a vest.

In fact, one wonders whether if Sir Doug had been rigged up with this gear perhaps he wouldn’t have been reduced to making a meal of the huskies quite so early on. Bad thought, must scratch out later.

Apparantly there was some press speculation about a week ago that it could have been part of the Midwinter Festival, but festival organisers were reportedly as bemused as anyone.

So the pretty statements remain, a colourful amalgam of dagginess and subversion but, like so much graffiti, a mystery to passers-by.

The guerrilla knitters roam free and anonymous – for now.

Read Full Post »