It's About Love Today

I was going to write about my visit to this woman hygienist yesterday, and got a fair way through this description. But then I realised I was just trying to out-Amis Martin Amis on teeth stuff. So I won't focus on that visit (other than to say 1) Having an Oh So funny cartoon of a dragon telling St George he should visit the dragon's hygienist on your wall is not funny 2) If you must have lots of diploma certificates on the other walls, at least make sure they are made out to someone who is the same sex as you so they don't look like fakes 3) Clean the bl0od off the walls before the next patient darling 4) How come you hygienists do not belive in pain control? and 5) I hate you and your ways, particularly that final polish with that solution that feels and tastes like sand mixed with old pirates' dirty undies water.)

Raped, scrapped, polished and pained, I left the dental clinic and went and drank as dirty and dark and tooth staining an expresso as I could find in London, upgraded my mobile phone, and headed back home to call mrs househusbandnot for some sympathy. The rest of the day was spent on working on that website I've mentioned, trying to figure out how to get my new phone off the German language setting, and having a very bizarre discussion with mrs househusbandnot about the hair products she was required to use as a teenage synchronised swimmer. (Apparently there is some sort of uber hair spray they use to keep their hair looking like that woman from How Clean Is Your House as they cavort around - and under - the water.) Speaking of hair, also got my hair cut v short yesterday. Now looking like - and this is a mrs hhn description - like the big gayer from a boy band on their reunion tour.

Hey, so we got a response from Madame B to the questionnaire. Turns out she is called Lucy who works in marketing, who swaps digital devices for sexual favours, and is also a bit of a electro-goth rocker. Now she has a name, blokewhowasdissingheralot is feeling all contrite about having been so mean to her - an interesting physiological dynamic. I think Lucy and blokewhoserealnameis***** should go out on a date. And then someone could turn their love story into a novel, which someone else could turn into a screenplay, which Richard Curtis could turn into a movie, which might make me some money out of househusbandnot...actually, sorry I need to go back to the hygienist again.

What is a hygienist anyway? When did they add that profession to the whole dentist agenda? When I was young, there was the dentist, maybe some fish or a parrot or something to amuse the kids, and a receptionist who looked like they would really like to be doing something else. (The dentist was usually a ginger with too much nasal hair, but at least you knew once you were out of his room there was not going to be any more pain for a while.) Also, why would you become a hygienist unless you were just too stupid to be a dentist - like vets and doctors. or librarians and writers, and politicians and businessmen. Which to me is the root (be-oom be-oom) of the problem: my hygienist hates her job, so hates her patients, and takes it out on them with nasty devices that would give Hannibal Lector a hard on.

It's about love today isn't it people. Getting mrs hhn to give me some loving sympathy after my hygienist hell, love blossoming in the chat room of hhn, and the love -* or hate - your have for your job.

* A thin line