The Drugs Don’t Work

The antibiotics have not yet provided a miracle cure for my dental woes, and had I known three weeks ago that my mouth was going to be in tatters, when I made my advance menu selection for last night’s external examiners’ dinner, my choice might have been slightly different. I would have gone for the soup, the salmon and the soothing ice cream instead of the chilli prawns in boiling oil accompanied by a lacerating doorstep of crusty bread, the crispy chicken with a big sharp bone poking out of it, and the hard cheese served with palate-ripping oatcakes.

After creating the impression of someone suffering from a really weird eating disorder by fractally dismembering my food into tiny chunks to minimise chewing, I further added to the picture by washing the whole lot down with gallons of iced water from the table and popping a furtive Amoxicillin capsule. Just in case anyone thought I wasn’t slightly strange after that, I refused offers of alcohol and topped it all off with some embarrassing nodding and smiling in response to some undetected questions. Oh dear.

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