Extraction.

The teachers are out on strike today as I walk to the dentist's. They're waving flags about and wearing gilets as the passing cars beep their solidarity. You go, girl. Funny, every one of those teachers is a blonde woman I think, as I plod towards the inevitable hollowing of my head. 

An hour and a half later I descend the stairs into the dentist's waiting room, lips inflated to somewhere between Michelle Pfeiffer and Donald Duck. I go to make the next two (two!) appointments with the receptionist and she gives me a card with the dates on. 

"OK, that's you." she says, which is Northern Irish for "go away now, please."

"Don' I hab to bay?" 

"There's nothing here, love." She peers at the computer. "No."

"Thass odd. I always baid before."

"Maybe you'll need to pay next time."

"OK." Confused, I head to the door. 

Out in the street the teachers are still there waving their flags. They've set up a little table with flasks on it. Cars are tooting their horns, but it doesn't take much for the Northern Irish to toot on their horns.  They love it, especially if they've just seen me step onto a zebra crossing. I stroll past them, wondering if I should say "beep beep" like the Road Runner as I pass. What a delightful little joke. They'd love me. But I don't do it as I'm self conscious about my swollen face. So I keep my head down. 

As I get to the junction near my house, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. Unknown number. I know exactly who it is. 

"Hello?"

"Mr Higgins? Sorry were you driving?"

"No, I was walking."

"WALKING?" she says, involuntarily. In Northern Ireland this is not done without the excuse of a dog. It transpires that I do, in fact, have to pay. She quotes the figure and my eyes start to water. I turn back and pass the picket line I passed only ten minutes before. A couple of eyes meet mine.

At the dentist the reception area has been left unattended. I stand at the desk, my debit card in my hand, trying to project my sighs past the glass. She appears from the office with a steaming mug of tea in her hand. 

"You're a quick walker!"

I pay the astronomical sum,and she suggests "I bet you wish you'd kept walking". 

I leave, poorly. 

Outside, the picket line is experiencing a lull in traffic and as I approach a couple of them eye me warily, as I'm walking past them for the third time in twenty minutes. Now is the time for a spirited Mr Toad "Poop Poop", but my nerve goes, and I shuffle past like the pervert they think I am. Besides, they're teachers - I don't trust them to get the reference. I'm reminded of Calvino's short story "The Naked Breast" where Mr Palomar, walking on a beach, passes a topless woman sunbathing. So anxious is he to put her at ease, he assays a series of different approaches, back and forth: cautious, respectful, unanimous, indifferent, until the flustered woman gathers up her clothes and leaves. That's what they think this is: some delinquent grey-haired gawper getting an eyeful of a host of golden educators blooming all over the pavement. 

I keep my head down. If they could see my involuntary "kissy" face, I don't think it would help my case.