Oh bliss, oh rapture

So I had this tooth extracted on Tuesday, as you know if you've been playing along; and it's kinda been doing the opposite of healing, getting more and more painful as the days progressed.

So this morning, I phoned the surgery, 'cos I didn't want to get caught in the middle of the weekend with a real problem.

Come straight back, they said. Right now.

So I did that; and my dearly beloved Tim has diagnosed a "dry socket" infection; irrigated the site with something nasty; packed the socket with even nastier black fibrous stuff that fills my mouth with a petrochemical odour and has to stay there until it resorbs, disintegrates or frays away, which could be anything up to a week; and put me on antibiotics.

Metronidazole, to be specific.

Which means I can't drink.

At all.

For the course plus 48hrs: which neatly encompasses Karen's visit, our trip to Cambridge, and - if I stay the whole course - FantasyCon too.

Oblige me by imagining just how thrilled I am. This is pretty much my Most Social Week Ever, and I am forbidden alcohol.

*weeps*

It's all in my head

Literally, of course, it pretty much is all in my head: in my skull, indeed, in my jaw.

However. There is clearly a trick-cycling component as well, because as soon as I had a diagnosis, confirmation that I really did have an infection, I started feeling really rotten.

Karen's coming tomorrow; I have, you will imagine, lots to do. I am not in any sense ready for a houseguest. There is shopping, there is cleaning, tidying, all of that. Cooking, perhaps. I should make bread.

Also, there is workie-work: stuff I really want to get finished before she arrives, so's I can be relatively carefree all next week.

I was poised to do all this. But now? Now I just want to lie on the sofa, read easy fantasies and be an invalid. Slurrup a little soup, perhaps. Provide warm still places for cats to be. Watch idlers' TV, and suffer gently.

Ah, me. Hard is my lot, and mean the crop thereof.

Adventures in the tea trade

So if I can't drink alcohol, at least I can drink nice teas. I have decided it. This week-and-more shall be an extended exercise in drinking nice things that are not alcoholic.

So: actually I went to town feeling in need of a treat and determined to buy expensive kettle, in the interests of pursuing nice teas (see above). Only then I vacillated between the expensive one and a much cheaper model, and of course ended up buying neither.

But I did come home with a packet of tea new to me: it's a teahouse blend of congou, pu erh and jasmine. Which I am drinking as we speak. Turns out it is in fact possible to drink tea when one should really be drinking wine; it just feels like there's something, y'know. Missing. Like a jaw with a missing - oops. Bad simile, Brenchley.

Am tired now. In fact, to be honest, am shattered. And have done all too little of what I need to do. House is a tip. No surprise there, then. Sigh...

*makes more tea*