Teethy Traumas, Gorgeous Greeks and Breaking Bad.

I seemed to be trapped in a vicious circle of harrowing dental work, groundhog day’s at work and a lack of lottery wins. I apologise for the upcoming repetition of toothy traumas.

I won’t go into too much detail about my root canal extravaganza on Thursday, except to say that it was horrendous, riddled with problems and broken apparatus, all of which led to me having to go back again this coming Thursday to get it finished.

I got home on Thursday feeling traumatised, battered, bruised with a feeling that I might just cry.

I am not the best with dentists I must admit. I blame my early experiences with a less than sympathetic dentist in my youth, which seems to have grown worse in my mind with each passing year. My current dentist is fine to be honest, but the mental scars are there, and I am a great big coward when it comes to strangers putting things in my mouth. If you know what I mean?

The rest of the week has been fairly quiet to be honest. On Friday afternoon I was taken out for lunch by work. They do a quarterly birthday lunch, taking out everyone who has celebrated a birthday in that period, which is just one example of why the company I work for is pretty damn good.

We went to a Greek restaurant in Manchester, and I went all left field and ordered Taramasalta and Moussaka. I like to push the boundaries. With that treat in mind I ventured to work on public transport on Friday morning. This wasn’t so that I could drink, but moreso that I didn’t want to take my car into the the city centre and try to find a parking spot that would cost less than my car.

Again, I am lucky that our office has secure free parking for staff, but if you venture into the actual centre of Manchester, car parking can cost you your first born child and a couple of internal organs.

It was a sobering lesson, and a reminder of why I am resigned to the car commute for the forseeable.

As we live within walking distance of the local train station, I wandered down at about 7.40 for the 7.50 train into Manchester. I only needed smelling salts and mild cardiac manipulation once I’d been asked to pay £8 to get to Manchester and back.

It doesn’t take a genius to multiply that by five days a week to know how unworkable that is. Having fought my way onto the train, and even having found a seat, about half an hour later I disembarked at Manchester Victoria. My office is less than conveniently placed for this journey, being on the outskirts of Manchester….the complete opposite outskirt from Victoria. So I set off for a thirty five minute walk, in the thankfully dry weather.

Having left the house at 7.40, I eventually graced my desk at 9.10, complete with an impressive film of sweat across my balding pate.

Safe to say, I shall be back in the car tomorrow, and no matter how soul destroying the gradual crawl into work is (and believe me it is soul destroying) it is infinitely better than the option on the tracks.

The reason I could not consider drinking myself into oblivion at the company’s expense was that I was picking Emily and her friend up from the MEN, sorry, the Phones 4 U Arena in Manchester. They were off to watch Paramore, and had a great time. Her social media output has been pretty much all Paramore since so if you like them seek her out.

Louise and I are now completely engrossed in and addicted to Breaking Bad, and have almost completed the first two series now. We haven’t watched any live telly all week to be honest, and I fear we may not again until we’ve made our way through the remaining 45 episodes that appear to be on Netflix.

I am hopeful (but not very) that Louise will forget all about Downton Abbey’s return this evening. I don’t know what it is, maybe another repressed childhood experience, but I associate these Sunday evening costume drama things with everything that is bad about the end of the weekend and the looming horror of the new working week.

Sat in my pajamas, fresh from the bath, squeezing every last minute from the weekend, and hoping that my Mum and Dad wouldn’t notice that I was still up. I would even sit through the South Bank Show if it meant I didn’t have to go to bed and admit the weekend was done. Why I was in my parent’s house in my pajamas last Sunday I don’t know.

Amidst all of the week’s events, and despite my Breaking Bad addiction, I have managed to make some progress with the trip report. I am currently working on day five. I consider this healthy progress, and at this rate it shouldn’t be as long as I thought it would be before it can be unleashed. Prepare to be underwhelmed.

I can tell you that if you enjoy the usual smut ridden old clap trap, you won’t be disappointed!

Right, time to get back to it.

Till the next time……