Laurence and Nick

And Ben and Whisky.

Oh my.
Now that my voice is almost restored, I am starting to feel a little crook, especially in the mornings after I've had a good cough. I don't have any clearly definable symptoms, just feel a little...under the weather.

My sweet tooth has been almost completely replaced by a salty one. A salty tooth, sounds like something a sailor might have, before she sailed into Iranian waters with or without evil intentions that is.
Whisky, on the other hand, has a cardboard tooth. He is both tortured and fascinated by the Christmas decs box.

The Roumanian dentistry has been going well. For the first time ever in my personal relationship with teeth, the dentist's chair has been relaxing. And I've even been spared the horrors of the unfreezing face, where your flesh itches so much you want to scratch it off.
Ironically, the original reason for abandoning the Aussie and South African practitioners of the British National Health Service in favour of a local fix, the broken tooth, remains broken, but the front part of my mouth has been restored to a semblance of pearliness.
However, I do not scorn the NHS, far from it. Utilitarian it may be - a large amalgam filling where the more market driven Canadian system will put a white one, for example, but it provides affordable dentistry for young families, for students, pensioners and the unemployed.
Oh, and presumably work experience for Antipodians.

Today is Laurence's birthday. We have feasted at the Memphis diner. More meat than is necessary in a year.
And it is St. Nicholas's day.
And it is the 20th anniversary of the Montréal Massacre of women engineering students at the Université de Montréal, Ecole Polytechnique.
A vicious atrocity committed by a vile excuse for a man.