The Tooth, The Whole Tooth, and Nothing But the Tooth

Q: When is an emergency not an emergency?
A: When you're waiting for payday and searching for a dentist in Britain.

Got home last night at about 7.45. By about 7.50, d was in the bathroom, saying "Well, that's not good..."
In her hand, there was a sliver of tooth. Quite a large sliver in fact. Apparently, she'd been making an American speciality called Rice-a-Roni, and a piece of pasta had been al dente. Al dente with knuckledusters and spiked boots, in fact. The whole back half of one of her front teeth had come away. We headed up to the 'emergency walk-in centre' which happens to be on our street. They wouldn't let us in at first.
"We close at 8," they said.
"It's five-to," we pointed out.
"Fine," they sniffed, letting us through the double-doors.
We waited our turn, and finally made our way to the Receptionist.
"We close at 8," she said.
"It's not 8," we said.
"We've got no more appointments left," she countered.
"We don't want an appointment," we said. "We need an emergency dentist."
"Ooooh-hoohoohoo..." the Receptionist chuckled, with an air of "Oh, look at this pair. Emergency dentist, no less. And can we get you a solid gold paracetamol capsule while you're at it, Your Highness..."
"There's one in Whitechapel," she said, once she'd stopped patronising us.
"Right," we said.
"But they close at 8 o'clock," she sniffed.
"Sooo..." we said.
"Call NHS Direct," she said. My phone had been dying when I came home. It was on charge in our bedroom.
"No phone," I said. She wrote the number down and handed it to me.
"Can we call from here?" I said, almost classically setting her up.
"No," she said. "We close at 8."

Welcome to the caring, sharing NHS. We went home, and searched the net.

Q: When is an emergency always an emergency?
A: When you can pay through the bleeding gums on the private market.
There was a private dentist on Baker Street, where we ended up at 10 o'clock. They charged us £80 for a consultation and an x-ray. Apparently, d was gonna need a root canal and a cap. That'd be about £1000 please, in a couple of installments, none of your socialist payment plans thank you very much. We nearly had a panic attack...which, given we were in a dentists, was pretty much appropriate. d said she wasn't actually in pain, so we crawled home, thinking about which bank had the slackest security, or the easiest computers to hack.

NHS Direct, in between the grim couldn't-give-a-fuckness of the NHS and the expensive disdainful availability of the private sector, had told us more about the Whitechapel clinic. Apparently, Whitechapel has joined the Eastern Bloc, twenty years after the rest of the world finally said "Oh do me a fucking favour" and embraced the wonders of capitalism.

We were told the emergency dentist opened at 6.30, and would probably only serve ten people. d left work at 3.30, and was first in line. I arrived three hours later, and things were just on the cusp of camaraderie and gang violence. There were 20-odd people in line, in front of whom I barged to be with d. A growl rippled back through the line, and d introduced me. A rumble of "Alright, but watch it..." purred back. 6.45 came and went. A brief chant of "What the Hell, this is ridiculous" was taken up, causing security in what looked like bullet-proof vests to mill around nervously just inside the sealed doors. Finally, on or around the stroke, a receptionist came and told us that only 15 of us, maximum, would be seen, so the rest of us would have to take a phone number and, pretty much, sod off home to writhe in abscessed agonies for (presumably) another night. We went in, and, following a bit of a scuffle where a couple of women had to be ordered out because apparently one of them had stolen the place of another, d went in. She was scraped, and drilled and numbed and filled. That'll be just £17 thanks...

Soooo you have the British healthcare system in two days of bizarre experience. The service you'd ideally like is available, at bankrupting prices. The service you'd get in East Berlin in the 80s is available...but you have to queue for it for three hours, and fend off all other comers. Anything inbetween...good luck with that.

In Disappearing Man terms, today has been weirdly newsless. My wedding ring is starting to slip off, which is ironic as Hell because I had to get it seriously enlarged as I got fatter and fatter, and if this keeps up, I'll have to have it reduced again. But above all, there's been a feeling of alrightness about today - a feeling of 'this is who I am now,' feeling a lot better in my clothes, and pretty much uniting the Falstaff and the Disappearing into something that is just ultimately Me. Where that came from, I have no idea.  Anyhow, good day, foodwise. Blood was 5.9 this morning too, so pretty much OK.

Tomorrow, the bicycle repair men turn up...which is just as well, as I think I've given myself another sonofabitch blister from two whole days of walking...So let's get on our bikes and ride!