I go to the dentists to be scraped. As a rule of thumb it’s a good idea to avoid any medical procedure that involves the verb “to scrape”, but couldn’t really avoid it any longer. There is a loud whooshing, distant transistor radio music being eaten by static and intermittent scratching and squeaking; I am staring into a bright light. It’s a bit like living through all the strangest bits of David Lynch films. All it needs is a dwarf.
After my scrape, the hygienist tells me all about plaque, about brushing and general hygiene. A voice in my head says that I’ve been hearing this since the Beatles were still together. Another voice says that if I haven’t learned by now then I still have to hear it.
On the way out I stop at the optician’s desk to ask about the progress of the contact lenses. They haven’t, apparantly, been ordered. I suppose that because I cancelled the direct debit and didn’t seem inclined to buy a new pair of glasses he thought it wasn’t worth the effort. But then if they are disinclined to honour agreements they’ve already entered into, why should I enter into another agreement? It takes fifteen minutes and he gives me a handfull of lenses and says that I’ll be told when the others arrive. I’m not holding my breathe, frankly. I’m even inclined to write a letter.
The company is The Eye Clinic on Shaftesbury Avenue, by the way. I have no complaint about the medical care, but the bit at the front – the glasses and contact lenses shop – is entirely sales driven (understandably since I’m sure there’s not much profit in scraping), but to an alienating degree. They are also absurdly overstaffed in the sales department, and since people need glasses (in a way that they don’t need, for example, waistcoats) there is a lot of scope for complacency.
I have more dental attention in a few weeks, so let’s see what transpires, shall we?
At home I gather up the Britten, pdf it and mail it over to Sara and George and also make a CD of corrections for Helen before heading into Walker where I work for the rest of the afternoon.
Mr Sherwood of the VAC calls to offer me the Borders gig, on account of the fact that I’m rumoured to have a CD. I accept the gig.
It’s jazz jam time again. The ringer appears, but we manage to sort it out amicably. The word seems to have got out amongst the jazz community (shudder) that there’s this little jam in South London unaccountable short of aimless noodling and a little posse of aimless noodlers have turned up. There’s a violinist who appears to believe that it’s his band. Poor thing, it’s not easy to get an in-tune note out of a fretless instrument, as he persistently demonstrates.
I suggest to the organiser that she award a ceremonial digestive biscuit at the end of the night.
(This is a reference to an all-boys-together activity that I’ve heard about, never seen and would never in a million years participate in. Ugh. But an appropriate metaphor here).