no fine friends this morning

Cigar-tin story no. 41.

That could be me, only it would be money flying out of my mouth.

Yes, I've been to the dentist again.

What a racket: for the cost of some old Chatelaine magazines, some fax machines and furniture from the Marquis de Sade's fall catalogue, you get a license to print money. How can someone so good at one thing (fixing your teeth) be so bad at another thing (giving you an accurate estimate). I almost bit my tongue off at the stump when the receptionist handed me the bill, only the dentist had warned me against chewing for a couple of hours.

Well that's it. I'm done. I've been on this road to some mythical dental Damascus for a dozen years now, and I just can't do it anymore. Whatever goes, goes. And I will never be mistaken for the American in the crowd, with his big, gleaming, murderous teeth.


  1. You would be happily welcomed in Britain, with or without teeth.

    My money disappeared via car servicing, an annual service turned into £600 of stuff! (I only bought it from them a year ago!)


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