About an hour or so ago, I brought home one very sore Scotsman from the oral surgeon, where he had a tooth extracted—or toof, as he says it by virtue of the heart-meltingly charming speech impediment rendering him incapable of pronouncing THs. The tooth had broken and abscessed; within about 24 hours, pain was radiating through his (increasingly swollen) jaw and he was in absolute misery.
Because we have no emergency dentists in our area, he had to suffer through the weekend with it—and, after that horror, I think getting the thing out is such a psychological relief that the pain is almost incidental. (For now.) And, fortunately, the procedure went very smoothly. Now he's collapsed on the couch, completely knackered and looking uncannily like the most adorable ginger squirrel in all the world.
So I'm off to make more Jell-O, which has finally found its way out of the cupboard.
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