In the morning the infected gum is back – as if it wandered from the gum to the sinus, decided it didn’t like it there and then wandered back again. Oh dear, I do hope I don’t have to do the whole guitar craft thing in agony.
Minor fontification during the day, along with contemplation of the gum.
In the evening it’s time for the Three Stags jam again. It’s quite nice and relaxed this evening – no ringer, Roland does his Dmin version of Summertime again, this time without visual aids. There’s a note in there I manage to miss on each occasion it occurs. Anything else? Oh I don’t know. One or two enjoyable noodles. I just like the standing-in-the-corner-being-handed-songs thing.
I do go to bed, but after an hour or so of failed unconsciousness give in and come and watch the television. The tooth is hurting quite a lot, now. This creates a dilemma for me. What I need is antibiotics, which I can most easily get from the doctor. But when infection or unpleasantness drifts into the mouth it becomes the province of dentists. I could go up to the A&E department of Guys, but that would mean sitting and waiting for a long time and then just being given antibiotics anyway. I resolve to do the doctor thing. Then it’s just waiting. I can’t get to sleep at all.
I listen to (and record for the nephew) the BBC production of The Subtle Knife. It does seem to be a tad humourless, but it might be that I’m building for myself a resentment against Pullman’s books (on the grounds that everyone else seems to like it). I would imagine that this wasn’t a good critical position, were it not for the fact that I suspect that quite a lot of literary criticism is based on personal animosities just as shallow and fickle.
I do eventually get some kind of minor bursts of sleep.