I’m back. But is anyone else still there?

What a half-hour I’ve just had! Wait, allow me to start again — I’ve already gone and irritated myself: what a half an hour I’ve just had. It’s half-an-hour, not half-hour. I’m not American. I’m very much British.

There, I feel much better now.

So, as I said, I’m back. Back with this blog post. Back writing on this blog, and for the first time in 3 years, no less. And it nearly didn’t happen. Why? Because I couldn’t find my bloody freaking password now, could I. Actually, I couldn’t even remember the Username I have for this Blog. In fact, it was only down to my previous self’s total and utter obsession with writing down passwords and saving them on random, un-labelled memory sticks — fantastic habit, that is — that got me out of this hellish debacle. Feels like backwards time-travelling, in a strange sort of way. Obviously I’m better than I think. Clearly, at some point in the past I sensed that my future self would become utterly useless — something that was hardly a surprise, I suppose, given my previous failures. But still, I’m proud of my past more forward-thinking self, even if it was also a bit too negative, almost waiting for me to go and fuck up. And, who knows? Even today I might have done something incredible to future proof another mistake my future self is yet to make. I suppose I’ll find out in time like the rest of us. I just wish I had an inkling of what that mistake might be right now, as I’ve already lost half-an-hour. The way the world’s looking, I may not be able to lose another. There may only be a few hours left…

Got a bit sinister and dark there, didn’t I. It was bound to happen. I mean, Donald Trump? Anyway, enough of that.

The real question is…is anyone else there? Who knows, not me. And do I care? No, not really, not a bit. After all, it wasn’t like this blog and the writing within it ever made me any money and acquired me thousands of readers, was it? (No, no it wasn’t and it didn’t.) Not that money and having shit-loads of readers is important, but, well, you know what I mean, I’m sure.

Still, it’d be nice to know that just someone is out there. Is anyone? You don’t have to answer, don’t worry. Not that you are, or were going to, but, well…

Funny what triggered me writing this blog post and the existential despair of forgetting a long forgotten password, actually. I was just on that strange Twitter thing — also for the first time in absolutely bloody ages, but in a less stressful know-the-password situation — looking about, seeing if I had any Notifications, and then I found myself looking at a nice Tweet that someone called Tommy had sent me (age forces me to think that I must put weird new-fangled words in italics and there seems no way out. I can’t see it getting better. And now those italics have started to manifest in strange facial expression versions of physical italics whenever I’m forced to say a word like Snapchat). Well, sent the world. But primarily me, I think (I really don’t understand all the new technology, balls to it).

Anyway, this bloke, he was called @tommy66788. Tommy Lawn, as a matter of fact. And Tommy, this Tommy Lawn, he’d carefully used his limited number of characters to ask me if I once wrote a blog post about cowboy boots (something that seems to consistently occur every year or so, as it happens). Made me smile, it did. To this I replied that I did indeed write it, and, as is hard to comprehend for someone who still takes at least a day to reply to an email, Tommy wrote back almost immediately, crushing my mental capacity to fathom just how someone can be so incredibly fast and also live any kind of life. I’m not vain enough to repeat what he said here, of course, but it was nice, anyway. Tommy said that he’d bought some cowboy boots from Texas in America and that he liked the article. He also said that he wears his cowboy boots non-stop. Yes Tommy! To Tommy, I salute you. As mentioned in that post about the boots I bought, I find it and have always found it brutally difficult to turn corners while wearing my cowboy boots. Perhaps I have a special sort, I don’t know (or perhaps it’s me who’s special? Seems it’s looking likely). Or perhaps the corners round here are particularly challenging. Either way, I’ve inadvertently gone and said about 5 times more than Tommy did in his one single admirable tweet, and pretty much said almost all of what he said. Maybe it’s time for me to re-think how vain I actually am after all…

It feels pretty damn good, anyway, this writing a new blog post thing. Let me tell you.

Now I think back over the past 3 years, I’m struggling to really work out why I disappeared from this blog altogether. Were myself and my partner dealing with the miracle of bringing up quintuplets while I simultaneously ran a multi-national business? No. Have I found myself too busy to write words on a screen in rapid succession? Occasionally I have, but then again…somehow I’ve found the time to catch up with both Home & Away and Neighbours, usually one after the other on Channel 5. I suppose, then, the biggest thing that’s changed in the last 3 years is my work and the direction of it. I used to be exclusively a freelance copywriter, but nowadays I’m more involved in video and TV production.

One thing that I know has had an effect on my writing is having this massive iMac computer. See, I didn’t just wake up one day and decide I needed a 27 inch computer and a ridiculous amount of hard-drive storage. I needed all this stuff to do my video work, you see, that’s why I bought it. You might be sat there thinking How would a great big computer prevent someone from writing? And it’d be a fair question. But here’s the thing, my friends: the moment I got my big computer, something changed. Something got disconnected. Where once I’d been able to sit on the sofa and write my blog posts in leisure, blissfully ignoring all other responsibilities and delighting in musing about all kinds of inane crapola, I now had to sit bolt upright at my desk in a completely new position (my laptop had died by the time I got my new iMac). Gone was the connection I’d had with my laptop. With my laptop, there was something about the proximity of my hands on the keyboard and the small screen that seemed to create a kind of emotional pact between me and the small, uselessly underpowered machine. The new iMac was great for video and graphics work, but it was about as useful as a Ferrari if you wanted to grate some cheese when it came to writing long-form stuff (could you grate cheese on a part of a Ferrari? In hindsight I am sure you can. There’s probably a bit you can have custom adapted specifically for it. I feel ridiculous, in hind-hind-sight-sight, for even bringing it up).

What’s silly, in an even more elongated version of hind-sight, is that I’m writing this on my iMac, and it’s fine. It’s happening. I’m doing it. Clearly I am. But something is definitely missing. So I think a new laptop might be on the horizon. Actually, I think it needs to be. I’ve missed writing this blog too much for it not to be. I love creating videos and I love producing art, but writing…well…there’s just something about writing…and I need a small underpowered machine again. Who knows? Maybe I’m undergoing a kind of rapid backwards evolution of some sort. Maybe in a year or two you’ll find me with a bit of slate and a load of chalk.

3 years, eh? A lot can change in 3 years. Look at the UK! Look at the state of the world! So much has changed that I don’t know where to start. Which suits me well, as a matter of fact. Because I’ve written enough for one night, so I’m not going to bother. Yeah, that’s the spirit.

I am going to bother to write my WordPress Username and password down, however. I realise that it isn’t wise to do that, but then, what is it wise to do? Only last week we were on holiday and there was a really steep slope that wasn’t wise to drive up in a shitty hire car, in the ancient village where we were staying, and I went and did that and got stuck half way to the top, didn’t I? Yes, yes I did. And a whopping great nightmare it was, too. Ah, you have to love an ancient village. We really should have hired a horse instead.

This has been fun. It really has. I forgot how therapeutic writing is, when it’s not the most frustrating thing ever in the history of the world. My goodness writing is so frustrating but also so necessary. What a strange combination. And now I keep thinking Could I ride a horse? Probably not. Definitely not. I don’t know about you but I’m really quite scared of horses.

Silly Old Goat is now live!

SOG

It’s simple really. My new website, Silly Old Goat is now live. The site is the new home for my humour blogging, as well as my new restaurant and travel reviews. After a long haul with hosting companies, learning about plugins and lots of other things which I have never had to deal with on this free blog, I’m looking forward to getting stuck into it!

Naturally, as a direct result of this, people have been asking me if that means this blog is finished. It isn’t. I’ll still be posting blogs here every so often, although in reality it won’t be as frequent. Hopefully people enjoy reading it. We shall see…

How watching dogs interacting with sticks will substantially improve your life

Witness the wonder

Witness the wonder

Yesterday I saw a dog in a park carrying a stick – I think it was a Border Collie. Or attempting to carry a stick. The stick was as long as the dog was – assuming the mind-set of a dog for a moment, my guess is that this was probably the main attraction – and the dog was an old boy with a big shaggy coat. As soon as I saw him slowly approach the stick with his curious eyes and lovely colouring, I was confident that he was going to be enamoured by everything it had to offer. Another possible attraction of the stick may well have been its multi-faceted appearance. With an appealing smooth-yet-intriguing texture on the teeth and additional smaller sticks literally branching off from the main one, this particular nice stick, stranded in the greenery of the park and just begging to be picked-up, clearly had a lot to offer. Additionally, the stick was the only discernible object in the entire grassy field, which, surely, qualified as reason enough alone.

Here is how watching dogs interacting with sticks will substantially improve your life.

Mental wellbeing

As I believe I have just sufficiently demonstrated, watching dogs – young or old, age irrelevant – interact with sticks is a joyous activity for humans of all ages and dispositions. Some dogs simply carry sticks about, making humans smile almost by default (unless those humans are cold and dead inside like people who find no pleasure at all in films like Dirty Dancing, but we won’t bother ourselves with that here). Whatever a dog is doing with a stick, be it simply carrying it or trying to attack it, watching such activity makes for immense enjoyment and pleasure.

Physical wellbeing

Facial muscles require a regular workout. Don’t ask me why – let us simply assume that it’s better to smile than to not, and that all those freelance writers who have written copious web articles on the subject over the years had a real interest and were not just following the incredible trail of money which writing for a living so obviously brings.

Here comes the science part. Smiling induces movement in other parts of the body. Hence the fact that when you smile, you generally tend to be interacting in some way which also works other parts of the body, thus making you fitter in a subconscious, holy-shit-I’ve-just-lost-2-pounds-and-all-I-did-was-watch-a-dog-playing way. It is therefore possible to say that watching dogs messing about with sticks is physically good for you, even if you find absolutely no mental stimulation in such an activity and still resent me quite a bit for mentioning Dirty Dancing in the above paragraph.

Laughter is great

Scientists reckon that laughter can be used as an effective pain medicine. Wow. psychologists believe, and have strong evidence for, the notion that laughter helps people to bond and engage in meaningful relationships with one another. No way! Another direct consequence of laughter is the inevitable release of endorphins, which we all quite love. So watching dogs interacting with sticks is beneficial in a breathtaking number of ways. Not to mention the fact that watching dogs carrying and playing with sticks does other things besides…

It gets the brain working

Watch a dog obsessing over a stick and you can’t help but think. Try it out and see what I mean. Take this example, in the mind of a woman whose a bit fed-up with her husband: look at what she’s doing with that stick! That’s ingenious, dogs are clever, I wish Dave was more ingenious…which reminds me…he really needs to Google how to fix the cupboard door like he bloody told me he would…maybe I should consider divorce after all…

While it could well be said that dogs carrying sticks is, in evolutionary terms, creating a disenchanting culture of misery for couples – specifically those with DIY shortcomings which could have been avoided had one followed gut instinct when a light-bulb needed changing and the partner in question was seriously flummoxed in a way that should really have made one think long and hard about the future of that relationship – it could also be said that it makes you think and have ideas. And if you have ideas, that’s brilliant, isn’t it?

All because dogs just quite like carrying sticks around. There. Thank you, dogs, and thank you for being there, sticks.

Life is great when you finally “get” cats

catBeing a new cat lover is an interesting place to be in my life. A surreal place, for someone who grew up only with dogs. A place that, at one point – a point which has stretched on and on for most of my adult life, it has to be said – I didn’t think I would ever be. Being a new cat lover brings a wide range of challenges, but it also brings joy, inspiration and feelings of contentment (like the first time I picked a cat up and it didn’t appear noticeably threatened, for example). When I’m not clearing up cat sick, the contentment bit tends to be much higher, it’s true.

Bizarrely, my new found love – what started as a new found ability to tolerate cats in the same space as me – began one day when I almost tripped and fell down the stairs in my girlfriend’s house. Seeking sunshine, the younger of the two cats had cunningly decided to wedge herself against one of the steps at the top, hidden in such a way that I only noticed her in that terrible moment when forced to make a choice: either sacrifice the cat’s life for the sake of my own, or shift my bodyweight and miss the animal entirely. Surprised to find myself doing the latter, I stopped there, on the stairs, where the cats had made an obvious attempt on my life, and looked at them both. They looked back up at me, sprawled out and reckless and, it has to be said, not seeming  particularly bothered in any way at all. Sitting down on the stairs, I pondered what to do with these strange new feelings I was having. A cat had almost caused me to fall to my doom, and there I was, not hating this cat, more curious than irritated…not resenting its freedom and incredible ability to make a full afternoon out of doing absolutely nothing.

“I think I might be a new cat lover,” I said to the cats. “I’m not sure if I’m ready or not, but I promise you I’ll try.”

This initial foray into cat appreciation was to be short-lived, of course. After a second and more crude attempt on my life later that same afternoon – this time resulting in a near-fatal bum-slide that had me acknowledging half the stairs with my ancient relic of a tail-bone – I was in a decidedly foul mood. I was in a stinker. The kind like when you’ve just picked up a pack of biscuits in the supermarket, and you drop them, smashing about half of them, and then feel obliged to buy the pack, because an assistant was watching you at the time. But it was then that a second event occurred which would have me questioning, once again, the place in my consciousness where the feline ones reside.

The cats were following me, meandering around my legs, mewing – this wasn’t me-owing, this was mewing – making it clear that they wanted something from me. Exclusively from me! From me? Yes. It was unmistakable. Not being any kind of expert, and concerned that I was reading more into this than was realistic, I asked Jen for her expert advice. Watching this display as I attempted to get a glass and fill it up with water, Jen confirmed what I’d been thinking: the cats wanted food from me. Not her, but me. The cats had chosen me as their one and only leader (for the day).

Now this was a revelation. I had gone from genuinely disliking cats to being their leader of the day! And while there were other more enthusiastic leaders around in plentiful supply, too!

Upon feeding the cats, however, any kind of bond between us seemed to vanish. I was clearly no longer their leader. Only bothered about the new slop I’d so kindly bequeathed them, the cats went back to their usual business and sauntered off in search of their new leader. I didn’t see them again for the rest of that day. Once again, I pondered how I had been used and thrown-away. Just another gullible human, tricked into doing the only thing the cats considered him good for.

Damn it.

It was to be several full days until the final episode in this catalogue of cat escapades happened, changing forever my viewpoint of the furry sack-like shape-changing critters.

We wanted to go to bed, but we couldn’t. Well, I couldn’t. Because beneath the bed was the older of the two cats. Clever, devious and conniving – it might seem like overkill to use such a spread of similar words, but I tell you it isn’t – the cat villain had planted herself beneath the bed in an impossible-to-get-to place. Again. And once I had seen her, there was no way I could simply get into bed and drift off to sleep, pretend like this had never happened. Anyone who has slept in the same house as a cat for any amount of time will understand why: either that cat is going to end up with its bum in your face at 5am, or they’re going to be scratching at the door to get out at around 3am, and the only way that’s going to happen is if you get up and physically let them out (call me sick, but at that point, a cat’s anus in the face almost seems preferable). After a quick consultation with Jen about this, which saw Jen amused and me less amused (by far), it was decided that it was my task to evacuate the cat from her den. I searched about the room and soon discovered a broom which was, by chance, broken and could have its head easily detached, making for a prime poking tool. This was to be my weapon of choice for coercing the feline from out, under the bed.

Obviously I couldn’t get her out though. For ten minutes I tried my best, jabbing at her and trying to swipe beneath her furry, sack-like body. But every time I was foiled. Either she got the best of my good nature by mewing and crying out in mock pain and anguish, or she swiped the broom handle with considerable force, attaching her claws to it and engaging me in a battle of mini tug-of-war that I would be foolish to try and win.

I went to bed in a vile rage, concerned for my imminent sleep’s welfare. I don’t think Jen got much sleep that night either.

Then something truly inexplicable happened. I awoke the following morning, only to find myself…having slept all the way through the night! Confused and scared for my life, I ferreted about for a few awful minutes, attempting to uncover the truth of my reality: was I awake? Was this some cruel dream? I looked under the bed and saw that the cat was no longer there. She must have escaped the room on her own sometime during the night. Elated, I got up and went downstairs. I felt like a new me. It felt like the start of an incredible new chapter where I could co-exist peacefully with cats.

Downstairs. Where I found the cats had been sick at various times during the night. One of them, all the way down the long, thin fridge, in an impressive cascade of bright yellow and brown muck. Lovely.

Despite the horrible sight – presumably a catty protest about the limited choice of slop available to them, contrasted with the stupendous choice which us humans so enjoyed – I smiled as I walked into the living room and saw the cats sitting there. I realised, then, that I had been fighting a losing battle all along. The cats weren’t my enemies, we were just from different worlds, is all. It was time to start new. Providing the cats didn’t keep on sabotaging my new open-minded approach to their existence by throwing-up all the way down the fridge, things would be good.

Susanna’s OK, but what about Susie Fowler-Watt?

Unmistakeably SF-W

Unmistakably SF-W

It’s a good job I’m not the sort of demented determined person who’s good at organising protests, who paints signs and who will think absolutely nothing of dropping everything and marching through the streets and using those same signs to show the world who my favourite flipping newsreader is. That’s right: it’s East Anglia’s favourite presenting superstar, Susie Fowler-Watt. Owner of the finest, silky, multi-coloured satin shirts that the flattest part of our country has ever seen.

And today wasn’t good. Today, all us SF-W lovers suffered what can only be described as a crippling direct hit to everything we hold dear about newsreading. Why? Well, those of you who have been paying any attention to the news in any way whatsoever will have noticed that Susanna Reid has just been named newsreader of the year at the TV and Radio Industries Club awards. Newsreader of the year! Disgusting indeed. Especially when you consider the dynamite duo that is SF-W and SW (also known as Susie Fowler-Watt and much-loved anchorman, the one and only Stewart White).

If awards could be given for defectors, then, no doubt, Susanna Reid would be right up there with the best of them. But when it comes to quality newsreading, anyone who has witnessed Susie Fowler-Watt’s natural smiley banter with Stewart White over the years will surely agree that today’s latest shun to East Anglia is completely unacceptable. Just because our county is flat doesn’t mean that our newsreaders deserve to be more or less constantly walked all over. In this case trampled. Even if they do have haircuts that hark back to the 1980s (something that SF-W pulls off in a way which seems nothing less than impossible, I should add).

The worst part about it, for me, is that I bet Fowler-Watt, with her wonderful supercar like nickname SF-W, took it gracefully and didn’t complain once. I bet she never once looked in the mirror and said “you know what Susanna, I’ll take your bloody head off if you smile like that again!” While Susie’s grace under such pressure is of course noteworthy, it’d be wonderful to see the ever enchanting SF-W lose it just once for a short time (preferably with Stewart by her side, holding her back so as to prevent any GBH which might not be conducive to future newsreading). And why not, when you’re 50% of the greatest newsreading duo that the East Anglian counties has likely ever seen? Surely if anyone has the right, SF-W does?

Then again, it wasn’t just SF-W who painfully lost out in 2014. According to the BBC story which spawned my intense Eastern counties anger, both Lorraine Kelly (Lorraine for goodness sake!) and Fiona Bruce also missed any kind of acknowledgment. Bewildering is the only word.

Susanna may seemingly have hit the jackpot with her move to front ITVs new Daybreak replacement Good Morning Britain, but don’t count SF-W out just yet. I know some people, and they’re damn good at organising protests…they also adore the genre of East Anglian newsreading.

…Squigglers!

My goodness. The drama and the tragedy. Once you start realising that everyone has comic squiggly lines on their forehead – even those poor people who have spent many years doing their best not to frown or laugh, in an attempt to hold them off until the grave, the poor, stupid, silly, vain, yet admirably patient bastards – you can’t see anything else when you look at them. Nothing else. Once you’ve seen them, there really is no going back. Previously serious-looking people will now look utterly ridiculous, thanks to these devious, indiscriminate, credibility-knackering things. People who you once thought Wow, they look young for their age! I wish I was like them! will now put thoughts into your mind like That’s ridiculous! They look absolutely fucking ancient for anyone’s age! How did I not notice that before!? Not being them is something quite beautiful! Following this realisation, you will then be plagued by a feeling of awkward, uncomfortable concern for the smooth safety of your own special forehead – which is not so special any more. Unless of course you’re old enough to have your own set of well-defined squigglers, that is (squiggli?). In which case, all of this will be old news and frankly you’ll be sick of it. If so, you’re probably hating me right now, or at least resenting me a bit. Which is spectacularly unfair when you think about it, because for one thing it’s not my bloody fault that you didn’t realise you had squigglers until I pointed it out, and for another, how do you know that I, myself, don’t also have a set of insidious squigglers?

That’s right, I have my own gang of squigglers to worry and panic about. They gather and they mock…they congregate on my forehead whenever I dare question someone, or when I try and guess the answer on a game-show and I get it wrong yet again (perhaps the squigglers like to remind me that I am wasting my life?). Sometimes it feels like they come just for the hell of it. Who the hell knows. One moment I’m fine, I’m normal, but the next…Squigglers of massive proportions. Sounds like a playful name for some nasty disease, doesn’t it? Maybe a US created weapon designed to sound fun, but actually it’s lethal. Lethal as the evening TV vortex created by the rather questionable Take Me Out is to your brain.

Squigglers, those doom-mongers, those despicable little shits, appeared on my forehead shortly after my 28th birthday, and I don’t need to be a biologist to know that they are going to stick about. Not just stay…but evolve. This is just the beginning of a routine that’s been practised an infinite number of times before. I’m not an expert or anything, honest, but even I know that there’s about ten more incarnations to go through before they are even close to being finished, and even then they’ll probably do something weird and unexpected that both undermines and celebrates all those previous years of torment. The only question is…what form will they take in the end? Will I end up with lots of little ones, or some of those deep-ingrained whoppers? (I’d rather the latter to be honest. At least then it’ll give my face character). Will they be curved and even or curved and hilariously uneven, as if chucked at my face by someone with their head on wonky and their vision all skewed? What a way to live…what a way to live. Thinking all these bloody things.

Squigglers

The good thing for most people, of course, is that squigglers aren’t there constantly. Up until you’re about 40 or so, they seem to come and go when you laugh or frown, so there is something fair in the world at least. After you pass that point, shit gets real, however. Real and serious. Look at anyone over the age of 40 and see for yourself what a mess they can make. If the subject of your squigglers-inspection doesn’t have even the barest trace of squigglers and yet has managed to reach this grand-old-age, then that’s really something. In fact, why not congratulate them? Why not shake their hand and surprise them.

And watch the squigglers show!

OH NO I JUST HAD A HORRIBLE THOUGHT

Just realised something quite awful which could bring the police and the world’s prosecution services to its/their knees…think of all the people who have witnessed crimes over the years! Think of the effect of squigglers on crime! By now, many millions of people will have thought that they were mugged or burgled by a young person if they’d been mugged or burgled by someone whose squigglers didn’t happen to be on display (or had been carefully taped-down), and all kinds of madness just like that! Or the other possibility, which is equally as sinister…

“What did the suspect look like?” An officer might say. “How old would you say they were, roughly?”

The victim might then reply: “Well, based on their forehead, which seemed to really jump out at me at the time…I’d say about ninety…”

The officer replies: “ninety? Nine zero?”

And the victim says: “yes, ninety…I’m telling you…”

“Well other witnesses say thirty-five…”

“I know what I saw. They had serious squigglers…”

“I am not saying that they did not, madam. But thirty-five and ninety…I see…”

“Good.”

“That’s a contrast we weren’t anticipating. But so be it, we know some pretty dodgy elderly folk around here. We’ll have to arrange a line-up. It’s time the scum paid.”

Oh no.

No more manual toothbrush. It’s time to join the big people’s club

Readers of this blog will likely have come across the odd tooth-related post (such as this one here and this one here). And why not blog about this subject? When you consider the importance and significance of the tooth – or more accurately teeth – in our every day lives, it seems bizarre that everyone isn’t blogging about it/them.

kkksksksksk

Sound advice from Dalai

I often wonder why human teeth exist at all. It is a conundrum. If Evolution is so progressive, then by now you’d have thought they’d be all joined-up together. I can’t stand the fact that so many other animals have undergone intense & impressive evolutionary transformations, losing arms and growing extra ears and getting rid of nobs, and yet, after many millions of years, we’re still stuck with loads of annoying teeth which require constant maintenance. Not the best when you have always favoured the manual toothbrush. It’s not because I’m a Luddite – although I probably am – and it’s not about being deliberately difficult as my dentist would surely insist (although I probably also am). It’s just me being me. I have never liked that weirdo-buzzing feeling of using an electric toothbrush. I don’t care that it’s meant to be easier and I couldn’t give a toss if everyone is doing it. I’ve just never liked the idea. I’ve always preferred my manual one.

In the past-past – by this I mean before the past, which is any time up until a few months ago – I have worried immensely about trips to the dentist’s and hygienist’s. Like anyone would if they never did what the dentist recommended. The days leading up to my appointment(s) comprised of me first pretending that I had done t least some of what I’d been asked to, then realising that lying about it wouldn’t work, again. The final stage was always one of resentment towards my rebellious inner-self. It was only me who had ever messed it up. If I’d have actually bothered, things would have been better. And I would not have got bollocked so much for having bad teeth.

In the most recent past, I wasn’t quite as concerned. I had made more of an effort leading-up to the appointment – I’d become obsessed with using mouthwash and those prohibitively expensive stick things you shove between your teeth, making your mouth bleed on purpose – and I had benefited. I was still a manual toothbrush Luddite, but at least I was changing, or willing to. I was definitely caring more, that much had to be true. So this time, when I arrived at my 6-monthly dentist’s appointment, I felt OK. Not brilliant, obviously, but I did feel like I had done half as much as I could have. This could only be interpreted as progress. It must have had something to do with reading all those Dalai Lama quotes on Facebook.

And the appointment went well. Very well. Alarmingly well, truth be told. At one point, she even said something about me having regularly used my electric toothbrush. My electric toothbrush! I had somehow managed to fool her! There she was, staring directly at my uselessly brushed teeth, and she couldn’t even tell I was a bloody Luddite! This was a shocking thing.

Then she said “Do you use your electric toothbrush once or twice a day?”

I said: “Er…”

It would have been very easy to lie. I should have lied, it would have saved me all kinds of hassle. But the poster on the wall to my right, the one depicting someone’s harrowing tooth-rot, someone like me, someone who’d done nothing to help their teeth for years, got to me. I ended up saying “I’ve actually only got a normal toothbrush. A manual one.”

“A manual one?”

This was a cry for help if ever there was one.

“Manual. No electricity.”

“Oh…I see.”

It could have got very awkward. Me pointing out how she really should have known. Her knowing she should have known and trying to hide it, badly. Yet it didn’t. Instead, almost as if she respected me for so capably pulling the wool over her clearly poor vision, we began a discourse on electric toothbrushes. Well, they began a discourse and I sort of just stood there and nodded. Why hadn’t I ever got into that whole scene? What was it about them that I didn’t like?

“How long have you got?” I said.

“No offense but about thirty seconds.”

“Oh.”

And it all came pouring out in those 30 seconds (once she’d finished calling her numbers out to the dental nurse, and I’d taken a swig of the nasty pink liquid and spat it out, streaming with blood). I decided to give it to her straight. There I stood, calmly explaining that I just had never liked the electric ones. So there, stick that up your bum, I thought but did not say.

Then began the pair of them talking in-depth about electric toothbrushes and all the different kinds there are. Sonic ones and oscillating ones (it is never a dull day when I get to use that word). Which ones they preferred. Ones which cost several hundred pounds (the wrong approach to take with me) and ones which don’t (the right). And all through it I found myself changing…thinking about what could be if I could just allow myself to entertain the idea.

I was to leave with a smile on my face. I’d done it. I wasn’t even out of the room yet and I had already moved beyond that horrible bit when you have to part with loads of money at the Reception desk, and I was now walking out of the surgery with my electric toothbrush. All in my mind. Thanks to my imagination.

Before I could change my mind, I thanked them, walked out of the room for real with the free little tubes of toothpaste which they’d kindly given me – nothing like it for making a person feel special – and picked up the first blue box on the display cabinet to my right. On it were the words Oral-B PROFESSIONAL CARE 1000. Beneath these words were several statements which made me feel instantly at ease. The first promised that it would remove up to twice as much plaque as a regular manual toothbrush. Good because plaque had always been my number 1 enemy. The second assured me that the 1000 was gentle on both teeth and gums. Good because both teeth and gums had been enemies for me at one time or another. Let’s just say they were all number 1.

At the bottom, with black writing on a yellow background, it said

PATIENT STARTER KIT

For dental professionals

And yes, I know what some of you will be thinking: why the hell didn’t you just buy it off ebay? Good question, but you needn’t be so modern about it. Not everything is about saving money, you know. Simple truth is that I wanted the Oral-B PC 1000 there and then. I didn’t want to wait and give my stupid logic a chance to derail what was happening. I wanted that money spent so that I had no choice but to join the new world. So there you have it. With that, so it was done.