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I'm away from home again, although coming back here felt familiar and comfortable. I brought my wellies (and a lighter fleece) so I can explore the muddy tracks this time. Yesterday was very rainy but Cabin Fever kicked in (I really miss having to go out and feed the pigs) so I walked along the North Road, which is very puddly, and did a bit of splashing, and re-arranged the streams of water running off the hill and along the track. The fallen leaves provided plenty of dam material and I felt the years fall away. The previous night we had a discussion on how not to act ones age, so I'm trying to do something juvenile more often. Then it was up a footpath to join the (not very) main road back to the village. Dumped on the grass are two probably commercial cookers. I hope they weren't dumped from where I'm working. I would like to say my first thought was how stupid to dump stuff in such a nice (but very wet) place, but actually my initial reaction was to admire the very fine beefy castors, which showed up quite clearly because they are up-side-down. I'm trying very hard to not borrow a spanner to liberate them, because I have no use for them, but they look so useful.

Walking back down the hill I am struck again how odd the village looks. It is a 'new' village, a bit like Stevenage although not built with tax-payers money, and must have been designed by a prophet who had known Balamory was going to happen. I was putting postcards in the post-box outside the shop (postcards are the original email, a message that cheers you up and doesn't need an immediate reply) when I noticed the postbox is a Queen Victoria one. How does a new village get an old postbox, or was it specially requested to add some authenticity? There isn't a war memorial, which isn't that surprising as most of the houses are holiday homes but it got me wondering how new towns cope with adding that kind of civic building. A war memorial with no names, waiting for the first new resident to be killed in action would be rather depressing, but not having somewhere to remember the fallen would also be rather odd.

The novelty of a new newspaper everyday is wearing a bit thin, but there isn't much else to do apart from splash in puddles and pour pints. There is a sudoku blog to come, but I have abondoned trying to read all the serious articles, and now I just flick through the headlines. Yesterdays headline was 'Ferry held in Custody'. Customs might want to hold a fancy yacht if they suspected drugs, but ferries are normally public vehicles so I read the article, and was disappointed to discover it was Bryan Ferry's son, and not a Calmac ferry.

The appointment day finally arrived. I had wangled a lift to Oban. The bus was either going to be one hour too early, or twenty minutes too late, so the lift was much appreciated.
Ten o'clock.
I was directed up to the day ward but fortunately they didn't suggest getting into bed. The nurse took my blood pressure, it was very normal. I had a book (Mudbound - very good) and two cups of tea and several warnings that it was being a bit slow.
12-30.
Eventually I was transferred to the theatre ward. I'm still in a chair but I have left the book behind, there isn't much to left read and I can tell something bad is going to happen to Ronsel. A man in overalls walks past clutching a drill and masonry bit, I hope he isn't the dentist.
1-10
It happens, I have to lie on a trolley. I want to see where I am going, they want me to lie dowm and keep my elbows in.
1-15.
I am wheeled into theatre and connected up to the blood pressure machine and some kind of monitor is put on my finger. I am covered in a blue cloth (to catch the blood?) and warned to keep my eyes shut when they turn on the bright lights (the bright lights are very bright). My mouth is jabbed with local anaesthetic, but it is far enough away from my lips so I don't go through the 'can't drink because of dribbling stage' later. The dentist asks me to move my jaw this way, I have my eyes shut but fortunately guess which is the right way. There is a crunching noise and I realise the tooth has broke and it is going to be a big job, but they turn the bright lights off and remove the blue cloth; it has no blood on it at all. My tooth is much smaller than I expected.
1-20.
I have a thick piece of antisceptic string hanging out of my mouth to soak up any blood and am wheeled through a door clearly marked not to be used for trolleys with patients. I keep my elbows well-tucked in. In the recovery room I am allowed to get off the trolley and back onto a chair. They take my blood pressure again. The piece of antisceptic string is removed and my tongue explores the new contours of my mouth.
1-30.
I walk back to the day ward. They don't take my blood pressure. I wait for a prescription: mouthwash and paracetamol.
1-45.
I leave the hospital.
I scoot round Tesco and buy chocolate and a french stick and catch the bus. The anaesthetic has worn off but I am not going to need the paracetamol, in fact I feel well enough to test the Pipers Gold all evening.
In conclusion, this particular wisdom tooth couldn't have been more accommodating if it had tried.