Milk Tooth!

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads, stepdads, grandfathers, brothers, uncles, and godfathers, who are positive male role models in a child’s life. We see you and appreciate you.

I am sorry that A Little Bit of Blake is on the drag today – usual story, I ran out of time and ended up finishing it Sunday morning. I’m up early anyway because I didn’t sleep much last night. It was so noisy outside that I kept being woken up. There were drunked up clubbers going home at two who were incredibly loud. There were rude noisy gulls who screamed their heads off all night. A truly horrible sound – it was like a cat was being tortured. A road sweeper decided that 5:30am Sunday was THE time to sweep our street. There was a group of lads larking about at six. In all, I managed about four hours of very broken sleep so eventually at seven I gave in and got up.

I went to make tea but what was left of my milk was a solid lump in the bottom of the carton despite still having three days left before its expiry date. I don’t know what’s going on, this is the third time I’ve had to throw away milk that’s become cottage cheese. And I know the lodger has thrown away a couple of cartons as well. Luckily, I picked up another pint yesterday, but I did peep at the lodger’s milk, and it was suspiciously thick so that’s gone as well. Is it just the heat? Although surely in a fridge that shouldn’t matter. Or is there something wrong with my fridge?

Hello Everyone! It feels like a million years have passed since we last chatted and I have so much to tell you I don’t know where to begin! Bed, tooth, new job, it’s all happening here. Okay, deep breath. First of all, as so many of you have sent concerned messages, I will begin with the tooth.

It’s out. I had my first day at work on the day after my last blog (Monday) and mentioned to my new boss what the situation with my tooth was. I asked if I could have my shift patterns for the next week or so because I needed to book an appointment to get the tooth out.

Just book the next appointment they have, she told me, and we’ll work around it.

Good start, I thought. During my lunch break, I phoned my dentist.

I can see from your notes that it’s an emergency, the receptionist told me, so we can fit you in at 4:40 tomorrow afternoon.

I booked it, then went and told my boss.

Okay, she said, that means you’ll need to start at 8:15am so you can leave off at 4pm. Is that okay?

Absolutely, it was. I was just grateful the appointment was sooner rather than later because I was now in serious discomfort.

On Tuesday, I left work at 4pm and hurried home to wash, change, and rush to the dentist to make my appointment. He stuck a big needle in my gum – which I didn’t like – and then, when that didn’t numb the area enough – he stuck another one in. And then he took the tooth out. And I did not like that one little bit.

Practically standing on the arms of the chair, he wrenched and wiggled that tooth with a pair of mole grips. I could feel the tooth grinding and moving in the socket and then it was out, and I was rinsing and spitting out blood, lots of blood. He stuck a cotton ball in the hole and told me to bite down. I did. A couple of minutes later it was soaked through, so he put another one in. He gave me a prescription for antibiotics – stamped this time, I checked – told me to take ibuprofen for the pain, have soft food for a few days, come back and see him if I had any problems, oh, and I must start seeing the hygienist because the rest of my teeth and my gums are in a shocking state and I will start losing them if I don’t get them professionally cleaned. Yep. At £80 for a twenty-minute session.

I paid, then walked back into town. Did I have any soft food at home? I didn’t think I did. I was passing Marks & Spencer, so walked in and grabbed a basket. Wandering the aisles in a daze, I didn’t know what I wanted. Soft food. Where was the soft food? I was beginning to feel very peculiar. My face was throbbing, and I was trying to keep the cotton ball in the hole. I could taste blood trickling down the back of my throat. I needed to go home, but I needed soft food first. I threw a couple of tins of soup in my basket and one of rice pudding. There was a deal on Italian ready meals – three for £9 – so I picked out a mac’n’cheese, mushroom risotto, and spaghetti bolognese, figuring they were soft. I went to the tills. They were quite busy, so I queued at the least busy one. An elderly lady was taking her sweet time unloading her trolley onto the conveyor belt.

Oops, she said. I’ve forgotten something, you don’t mind do you?

And before I could say, that yes, actually, I did mind, and could she please either hurry up or let me go before her, she’d disappeared.

I waited. The cashier caught my eye and gave me a disapproving glare. I imagine with my jaw tightly clamped, and my expression one of disgruntled pain, I probably looked like I had a resting bitch face.

She’ll be back soon, he said, and I nodded. I couldn’t speak because I was afraid the cotton ball might fall out or I might dribble blood like some kind of horror film. She came back with the focaccia bread that apparently she couldn’t live without. The cashier put the rest of her things through – and then the blinking woman couldn’t find her purse.

I wanted to kill her.

Sorry about that, the cashier said, after the woman had finally packed all her shopping and left. Do you need a hand packing?

I had to respond somehow, so I shook my head.

Nah, I muttered around the cotton ball. Juss had toof taken out, can’t speak, hurts.

Oh no, he said, his whole attitude changing now he knew I had a valid excuse for looking like a grumpy toad called Karen. You poor thing.

He whizzed my things through in record speed, I paid and left. I still needed to get to the pharmacist and collect my prescription and some painkillers. I reached the door of my usual chemist just as they turned the sign to closed. Because the old lady had taken so much time faffing about with her shopping it was now 5:30pm and the shops were shut.

In a slight panic, I realised that thankfully, Boots the Chemist didn’t close until six, so I scuttled in there and stood in the very long queue for the pharmacy. Why are there always queues everywhere you go?

Eventually, it was my turn. A bit afraid they might not have the antibiotics I needed again, it was a relief when the pharmacist just nodded and disappeared out the back to get them. I didn’t get home until gone six. I’d been up since 6am, pretty much on my feet since then. I’d done a full day’s work, rushed about, had a tooth extracted, and then had to walk to buy food and pick up my meds. I was done for.

Reaching home, I was shaking with cold and starving hungry. I looked so bad my lodger was quite concerned about me. I put the heating on – in June!!! – and then warmed up the soup. I ate the whole tin. I was still famished. I cooked the mac’n’cheese and ate it all, it was actually very tasty, but I was still hungry. I warmed up half the tin of rice pudding, and then I was full.

I huddled on the sofa, watched Netflix, and then toddled off to bed at ten. By then the numbness had worn off and my jaw hurt a lot, so I took the pain meds and hoped I’d sleep.

The next morning, trying to peer into my mouth in the mirror, I could see a dark black blob of something had formed in the hole where my tooth had been. I Googled tooth extraction and read that it was normal for a blood clot to form to protect the exposed nerve and bone. That I was to leave the blob alone and not “jiggle the jelly” otherwise I might dislodge it and get something called dry socket which sounded horribly painful and something I’d rather not experience. I have taken great care not to jiggle the jelly and luckily, ten days later, it seems to be healing nicely.

The next thing to tell you is about the bed. You remember the bed. That mahoosive hotel-style king-size bed which had been relocated to the tiny boxroom. Well, Wednesday morning I put it on the local Things For Sale website. I was hoping to get at least £750 for it, so I put it on for £900 because people like to haggle over the price. Bought new, the bed plus mattress and all the bedding would cost £2000. It is less than six months old and has hardly been used, so it was a bargain, I thought. Anyway, less than thirty minutes later I had a message from someone with an Eastern European-looking surname.

I buy the bed, the message announced. I pay you by transfer now and will collect it this evening.

Oh, umm okay, I responded, somewhat taken aback. Don’t you want to come and view the bed first?

No, no, I have seen the images, it is all fine. Please send me your bank details.

Just to check, you do realise you will need to dismantle it and get it downstairs? Do you have someone with muscle to help? Will they have the right tools?

To each of my enquiries, they sent a thumbs up.

I hesitated. I was pleased to have sold it so quickly and for the full amount, but something wasn’t sitting right with me. It all seemed a little too quick and easy. And who simply drops that amount of money without at least glancing at the product first? But there wasn’t a lot they could do with my bank account details other than pay me, so I sent them my name, sort code, and account number.

A few minutes went by, then …

Please may I have your email address?

Umm, why?

I need your email address to pay the money into your bank.

No, you don’t.

Yes, I do.

No, you really don’t.

Your bank is saying it needs your email address to verify payment.

Since when? My bank never asks for an email address either when I’m receiving payment or making one.

They sent me a screenshot of an odd-looking form asking for the payee’s email address and my spidey senses went on overload.

That’s an odd form, I messaged back. I’ve never seen one like that before. I’ll call my bank and see what they’re playing at.

No, I don’t have time. You give me your email address and I send money straightaway.

I ignored this message and called my bank and explained the situation to them.

Absolutely not, they told me. Do not give them any more information. With your bank details, email address, and home address they will be able to find out your full name, your date of birth, your maiden name, and even your mother’s maiden name. They can then apply for buy-now-pay-later credit on big-ticket items and the first you will know about it is in nine months when the company takes payment from your bank account.

We live in a sick world where you have to be on guard against this kind of crap on a daily basis. Anyway, my bank put an alert on my account to be on the lookout for suspicious activity, and needless to say, I did not receive any more messages from the “buyer”.

Thursday morning, I had a more sensible message from a genuine-looking buyer. They knocked me down to £800 and made no offer to pay until they came that evening to look at the bed and dismantle it. In the afternoon, the buyer called me to get my address and it was arranged they would pay by PayPal upon inspection of the bed. Anyway, he and his mate arrived in their work van, and he looked at the bed, pronounced himself happy, and attempted to pay me.

Now, I’ve used PayPal many times, it’s quick, safe, and easy. Not this time it wasn’t. The website glitched, it didn’t want to know, and the payment wouldn’t go through. The guy phoned his wife, who looked at their PayPal account and said the payment hadn’t been activated for some reason. The guy had brought cash with him as well, just in case, so he paid me with that, they finished loading the bed into the van, and off they went.

An hour later as I was eating my dinner, my phone pinged with a notification that I had received a payment of £800 from PayPal. I texted the guy and told him I’d refund it, and could he let me know when he received it. This time, PayPal took an hour to send the money back to him. Honestly don’t know what was wrong with it, but at least it all got sorted in the end.

I am very relieved I hadn’t paid the full retail price for the bed because it would have been gutting to get so little back for it, but at least it was gone, and the next stage of decorating could commence.

I couldn’t do anything Friday because I was at work. So, Saturday I was up bright and early and pulled up the carpet and underlay. It was a baking hot day, so I was wearing very little but still got hot and sweaty. Now, I don’t know if you have ever taken up underlay, but it disintegrates into a very fine sand-like dust that proceeded to stick all over my sweaty body. It was like I’d been tarred and feathered. I then had to lug all the carpet and underlay downstairs so the whole house was gritty underfoot with the stuff.

I piled it all in the car, then started pulling down the bookshelves. They were flimsy and not very well made so it didn’t take much, but it took lots of trips up and down the stairs before it was all down and then I only just managed to squeeze it all into the car.

I needed a shower. Boy, did I need a shower. I had booked a slot at the local recycling centre – it’s so posh now you have to make an appointment – but I had time for a quick shower to wash all the dust and bits of underlay and carpet fluff off me. At the recycling centre, there were lots of sweaty people unloading hedge trimmings and various garden sundries, so I guess the nice weather had people tackling outdoor chores put off since last summer. After I’d heaved all the broken bookshelves and rolls of carpet and underlay into the skips, I went grocery shopping and treated myself to steak with all the trimmings and red wine for dinner. Well, I was celebrating my first week at my new job, selling the bed, and being A Very Brave Girl about my tooth – and I was tired of soft food, I wanted something I could chew.

Now, about the job. I’ve been there for two weeks. Am I enjoying it? The people, yes. They are lovely, friendly, and funny. The job itself? Hmm, bits of it are fine – I love all the different tiles and I’m enjoying learning about their functions and uses. I’m going to be taught to cut, lay, and grout tiles, which I’m quite excited about. It is a lot more physical than I was expecting and I am going home each evening broken, drenched in sweat, filthy, and covered with bruises. Hopefully, I will toughen up. But it’s early days and I will wait and see how things progress.

This week on Wednesday and Thursday which were my days off, I pulled up all the gripper rods, stripped off all the wallpaper, washed all the walls down with sugar soap, and filled and sanded all the holes and cracks in the walls and ceiling. I then went to the recycling centre again to get rid of everything – honestly, they’ll be giving me a loyalty card at this rate.

Friday – long, hot, sweaty, exhausting day. It was our delivery day, so I and the other new girl spent the whole day lugging bags of grout, packs of tiles, and assorted tools off the delivery pallets, checking and putting them away. Drove home at 5:30 desperate for a shower. One of the bags of grout had leaked all over me so I was covered in white powder. Reaching home, all the neighbours were out in the sunshine clutching drinks and chatting. Going into the house, I saw that the lodger wasn’t home yet, so I shot into the bathroom, stripped off my filthy uniform, and dumped it in the laundry basket. I didn’t have time for a shower, so I had a good wash instead, then realised I didn’t have anything to put on. Never mind, I thought, the house is empty, I’ll just dash upstairs and get changed.

Clutching a small hand towel to my chest, I exited the bathroom and ran straight into the lodger. There was a lot of shocked shrieking, and I shot upstairs as she covered her eyes, laughing like a drain. Once respectably clothed, we wandered outside with bottles of drink and chatted with the neighbours for a while. I’d been on my feet all day though, so my legs were shaking with tiredness by the time we came in. As neither of us had dinner plans, we ordered a pizza, cracked open a bottle of wine, and watched Sense and Sensibility.

I had so many plans for Saturday, but it was one of those days where everything took longer than it should have. I had sold something on eBay so had to go to the post office – on a Saturday, shudder. And it was worse than I imagined it would be. The queue was out the door, only one assistant was serving, and only one of the automated machines were working. I tried using that, it got so far then told me I had to wait for an assistant. WTF?! What is the use of using the damn thing if you still have to wait for an assistant? I looked around. There was only one assistant, and he was currently trying to deal with a queue that was bigger than my future.

I waited patiently – well, that’s a lie, I waited very impatiently – but nope, he was showing no signs of coming over, so I marched over to the till, bypassing the queue, and interrupted him, informing him that the machine had got stuck and was demanding assistance. To be fair, he did come over and get it going again, but then the machine didn’t print my proof of postage with the parcel tracking number. Without this, I would have no way of proving if the buyer had received the parcel or not. Back to the head of the queue I went, over he came again and banged and fiddled about with the machine until it reluctantly coughed out the receipt. I did apologise to the queue, and they were all good-natured about it. Our post office is a joke. They don’t pay their staff enough and make them work under shit conditions. This means they are frequently without staff which causes queues of biblical proportions and an average wait time of almost an hour to send off a parcel. It is seriously quicker to drive to my parent’s village and use their post office.

Anyway, now running late I shot into Waitrose to grab a few essentials and four bottles of artisan beer for my dad for Father’s Day. I did try to write my blog yesterday, but only managed about half of it before I had to dash over to see my parents and take my dad his gift and card.

And now it’s Sunday morning, almost nine and I’m just about done with all my news. It’s shaping up to be a lovely day although it poured with rain overnight and I heard a couple of rumbles of thunder – maybe that’s why the milk is off. Lying there listening to the rain hammering down I thought how it would at least be watering the garden and washing my car. Then I remembered all the cushions had been left out on the garden chairs and my heart sank. They take days to dry out properly and then stink of old fish because the foam is wet.

So, plans for today? Post this blog. Have breakfast. Then get changed into my painting clothes and dilute some white paint to put a base coat on the boxroom walls. If it dries quickly, which in this heat it probably will, I might even get the first coat of grey paint on as well. There is the ceiling to touch up and tomorrow I will get the second coat on the walls. If it dries in time, I shall lightly sand down the floorboards ready for varnishing. And then I’ll be back to work.

What an exciting life I lead. I wonder at anyone wanting to read this blog.

Have a great Sunday and I will chat with you again in a fortnight.

Julia Blake