A pain in the past

Needless to say my infected tooth did not get better over the weekend. A large lump appeared on the roof of my mouth and my top lip had swollen like my plastic surgeon tripped over my handbag on the way to inject me with silicon. I no longer could consume food that had not been pulverised and all liquids mostly ended up in a puddle in my lap. So today I met with an endodontist whose title roughly translates from its Latin origins as licensed to torture people with smouldering instruments.

As I sat in the waiting room I flicked through the scrappy over thumbed and out of date magazines but then came across a hard cover book about the history of Collins Street. The photographs were magnificent of the different eras of architecture, the street scenes from horse and carriage to cars and of course fashion. As I poured over the black and white prints I thought wouldn't it be great to go back in time to look in the shops of beautifully crafted garments, hand stitched gloves and tailor made footwear. Then as I progressed through the book I got to the chapter on the medical industry inhabitants of the east end of the street. I thought to myself how glad I am to be sitting in a dental surgery today and not in the 20's when the latest technology was not much more than new leather straps to hold you down and a hot poker. And then my name was called. An hour later I staggered out of the surgery holding my face and no, a hot poker wasn't used but on a pain scale, gee I'm not quite sure which I would prefer. So hopefully the swelling will go down and I will stop frightening small dogs and children but not before my next hot date with sharp instruments. Such progress.