Income tax, leave to remain, call bank

The clocks turned back an hour, or maybe they pushed ahead. Yesterday felt like two days in one and this morning I woke with a panic because there was more light in the sky than what I’m accustomed to. I got to work early and feel more rested than I have in days, but it’s going to be very dark by the time I leave. Nobody can explain these things to me properly though.

Last night we went to see Bat for Lashes perform at Koko. The opening act was one of the strangest I’ve seen – weird in the way of French music, campy minus the gay aesthetic and oddly palatable in spite of its many quirks. I wish I could post the tiny, shitty photo that currently sits on my phone, or even remember what the band was called. But if you can picture a black man in dreadlocks, white tennis socks and a deep pink chiffon skirt rapping in French, well. Good for you I guess.

My dentist appointment was not too traumatising, at least beyond a few bad moments wherein I made an ass of myself by trying not to curl up in the foetal position after the shot of Avocain. Which basically meant that I pulled my knees to my chest and flailed about in a way that would not win over any hearts in England, let me tell you.

He also seemed confused when his assistant handed him some kind of scraping/picking tool, asking her “What’s that for?” and doing a bit of something or other with it after she demonstrated in the air over my head. That wasn’t overly comforting.

Then I nearly passed out at reception (just because), eliciting only an uncomfortable laugh from the receptionist when I told her I was feeling faint.

Yet there was no pain once the numbing wore off. None at all, at least until I bite down on something by accident and then great bloody hands of Christ does that ever hurt. You’d think that the removal of nerve endings would put a stop to debilitating mouth pain but you’d be wrong.

Bruce finally managed to convince me to watch Grizzly Man after confirming for the fiftieth time that no, we don’t see him get eaten and no, we don’t hear him get eaten. And then when the time came to hear him get eaten, I said with some disappointment, “So we don’t hear him get eaten then?” I’ve spent the last several hours trying to envision this sound, as I can’t possibly let a description of what a person being eaten by a bear sounds like stand.

And I’m wondering how come a whack job like that gets to pet wild foxes when I can’t even walk into the same room as our cats without them making a federal case out of it.

Ideas?

Okay bitches, over and out.