I can’t say for certain that the haggis that did the tooth in, but even if it did not kill the tooth in the first instance, it acted as an accessary at the least. I am content to pin the whole blame on it because in murder cases one needs a culprit, and because a haggis (mine was an instantiation of the general rule) shows no remorse.

About a month back, my Roundel-mate Ted brought back a haggis and chips for my lunch because a nearby chip shop was offering the supper for the special price of £2. Jokes were made about the appearance of the haggis, particularly as another office-mate, who has the same has the emotional hang-ups with the food as I have with root canals, had never seen one up close before. Decency prevents my spelling out the nature of the comments in a public forum.

I ate ceremoniously at first, but by the time I had four bites to go nobody was watching anymore. So nobody saw me wince in pain as I bit down hard into a stray bit of bone. I discretely binned what remained of lunch.

The tooth was sore for the next few days, but seemed to improve by the next week. After another week, however, the soreness still had not gone away completely, and I began to obsessively tongue the back of the lateral incisor that was giving me trouble. By last Sunday, I knew in detail every irregularity of its surface.

On Monday I bought a coffee on the way to work. After one sip, I gave it away to a friend. I spent the morning fretting about the what nightmare getting dental care in the UK might turn out to be (local dentists stopped taking university students as patients this year), wondering irrationally if it could wait to the next trip home (in November!).

I went home for lunch and called the dental emergency hotline, then drove out the next day to small village, about 40 minutes out. It would be uncharitable to describe in any detail the office as it appeared to me. Suffice it to say that as I climbed into the avocado green examining chair I felt like I was in one of those Rockwell paintings of scared kids. The doctor put some waxy stuff on the ailing tooth and told me to wait a few days to see if it got worse. I would have asked for an X-Ray except I there wasn’t one. I received a small bill of £9.87.

I took courage at having paid a professional to tell me I have beautiful teeth, but by Saturday (last night) I was in the throws of the worst toothache imaginable. Phil came over to watch A Clockwork Orange, and I had to pause the movie twice to walk off the pain. After he left I watched The Life of Brian and didn’t laugh. When I realized there was no getting to sleep, I watched to the bonus material, but turned it off when I realized I was staring obsessively at the teeth of each Pythons as he got interviewed in turn.

At three I called dental hotline, then lay in bed & sweating cursing until morning. I drove over 5 inches of new snow to Kirkcaldy—the 20 mile drive took over an hour, but by then I was already becoming philosophical about my brush with suffering—and had a positive encounter with a friendly receptionist who said I was daft for coming out in such weather. She turned out to be the dentist as well, and I’ve felt great ever since she opened the abscessed tooth for draining. My bill came to £6.56. (Thank you NHS.)

Estimating £25 for the petrol, the experience has cost £44, including the haggis. I’m to have root canal therapy later in the week, so I expect the final bill will exceed £50. Not bad, from one perspective, but quite a nice bottle of single malt from another.

Tags: Personal