Couple of months ago I was awoken by an horrendous KERUNCH from my rear dental region (see previous posting 'Crunch'). Panicking somewhat, I checked for a suspected disintegrating molar with a nervously roving tongue. All present and correct. No apparent damage. Must have been a dream. Or, more specifically, a nightmare.

Couple of weeks ago, whilst brushing me fangs, half a tooth decided to abandon ship (with hindsight, it had obviously loosened when I heard that 'kerunch'). Panicking somewhat, I nervously tongued the disconnected item to the front of me gob from where I plucked it with shaking fingers. Hardly daring to look, I slowly opened a single eye and focussed on whatever it was that lay in my hand. Eeeugh! Black!

With both eyes now wide open in utter disbelief, I grabbed my specs for an even closer inspection. Looked like a remarkably large lump of lead. Then I noticed a couple of small metal prong protrusions. Whaaat the...?! Was this some kind of spylink transmitter device? Am I the new James Bond? Had I, like Dustin Hoffman, been operated on by Larry Olivier a la 'The Boys From Brazil'?! Am I turning into a robot? That could explain my clicking knees, rusty right shoulder and recent habit of repeating myself. That could explain my clicking knees, rusty right shoulder and recent habit of repeating myself. Ye gods, what other mechanical devices have I been fitted with without me knowing? Aha! Panic ye not C3PO, R2D2 and K9! Must be that cap thing I vaguely remember my dentist fitting about thirty years ago. Lasted well I suppose, especially considering the battering it's had over the years.

In situations like this, a normal person would calmly book a dental appointment at the earliest opportunity. However, being a total coward with a view on life that suggests a wayward ostrich defied nature and flew into my family tree somewhere along the line, I decided to do nothing in the forlorn hope that the problem would simply go away.

Some hope.

Couple of days ago, the half-tooth wisdom that's still embedded in my upper jaw started complaining. Day and night. Didn't have any paracetamol so I administered whisky at bedtime. Didn't work of course, but it was a good excuse. Then my left incisor, the one with the hole that mysteriously just won't go away, started complaining as well. And, just to prove everything happens in threes, some little blighter on my right lower jaw decided to get in on the act by sticking a red-hot poker on a sensitive nerve end. And as if that wasn't bad enough, it then loosed up and started wobbling.

No getting away from it. After a wretched week-end of triple toothache, it was definitely time for action.

So, I decided to visit the dentist first thing Monday morning. Unfortunately though, first thing Monday turned out to be early afternoon due to the previous night's slight overdose of medicinal Famous Grouse. Then I thought it just wouldn't be right to breathe whisky fumes over an unsuspecting dentiste. Plus I had to walk the dogs, light a fire or two, decide what to wear, have a wash and shave, all in a couple of hours. There just wasn't the time. So I decided to postpone my visit until Tuesday morning. Today, in fact.

This morning I woke up fresh as a daisy, without any whisky breath and surprisingly devoid of dental pain. Well, certainly less than before. Perfect; bring on your probing needles Monsieur Conchon, je suis pret! Er, almost. Just had to walk the dogs, have a shower and shave, decide what to wear, iron a few shirts, clean a few shoes, do a bit of this and that... Suffice it to say that I eventually arrived at the dentist's at around 4.30pm. Shut. Damn. Ah well, I'll try again tomorrow.

Unfortunately, I arrived back home starving. Hadn't eaten for a few days. So I scoffed an out-of-date tub of shrimpy tapas that I found lurking in the back of the fridge. Just about managed to masticate the lot despite the early signs of lockjaw. Maybe the tooth or teeth are going septic. Serves me right for being a wimp. Anyway, as I sit here merrily tapping away, I'm beginning to detect a slight whiff of garlic. Quite a strong whiff actually. Not exactly what the dentist ordered. Ah well, maybe I'll just have a wee dram or two to wash down one of those froggy paracetamols I bought this afternoon before getting some kip.

Much plucking up of courage required tomorrow. Plus a few peppermints and a large sprig of parsely.

Hang on, I'm not even registered in France yet. So maybe Conchon the Fangman won't operate. Guess I'll just have to plead with him whilst dribbling blood and waving a chequebook.

P.S. Visited the chamber of horrors. Am now booked in for 4.15 tomorrow.

P.P.S. Endured two fillings without injections. So butch. Am now booked in for a rotten wisdom extraction on 9 January, quite probably with a pair of rusty pliers and without an injection. Can hardly wait.

Georgie popped over for a flying visit last week-end. Or was it the week-end before? My, how time flies. Turned up with her usual suitcase on squeaky wheels crammed full of biscuits, teabags and bike mags, bless 'er. Also, having read of my latest dalliance with Porsches, she managed to squeeze in some new mag aimed at prospective Porker purchasers such as moi. Obviously there's a whole heap of us geriatric old boomers looking for a final James Dean fling. Naturally, I gleefully accepted this mag as confirmation of her approval to continue my quest for motoring Nirvana. However, just as I was about to get on the blower to the owner of that superb, two-owner, low mileage 911 just west of Paris, she reminded me that whatever I spent on a car that we don't really need could be better spent on the house or barn. Hmm, good point. So, unaccustomed as I am to being Captain Sensible, I guess I'll just have to make do with our underpowered but amazingly economical, beat up, smelly, poxy 1.4 litre, Citroen ZX estate. Er, and our excellent, classic, VW camper wagon, my superb Honda Africa Twin, mint 340 Bultaco and brilliant 310 Ossa Gripper. Life's a bitch, huh?!

Actually, come to think of it, wasn't me chasing Porsches but ma' wee deevil. Georgie was rather amused by his existence. Suggested I gave the wee bastard a name. So I have...

Murdo.

Murdo McManic.

One of my blog chums (the inappropriately named 'Grumpybloke') has asked if I would add a few snaps of things I've mentioned in recent postings, such as the new humdinger of a kitchen stove, the hugely expensive, draught-excluding, double-glazed windows and work-in-progress with our magnificent new shed, par example. So, for Grumps and anyone else who may be interested (can't imagine why), here are a few visual aids to help you picture with greater accuracy the continuing saga of my/our new life in the land of frollicking frogs.

Er..., as usual I'm making a right cochon's ear of uploading these damned photos. Will try again later after I've walked the dogs and made a mad dash to Aubusson in a probably vain attempt to get to the newsagent's before midday in order to grab today's Torygraph (IF they have it in stock - and the wee deevil wants another effin' car mag).

1) The new windows and roof (note dilapidated old shed to left of house)...

Managed to load one photo but this confounded laptop thingie wotsit has decided that one's enough. Maybe, like me, its memory's all used up. Think I'll attempt to ditch some old stuff and then try again.

2) The new shed (or, more accurately, the space where the shed will be just as soon as Daniel the builder decides to re-appear - paid him a grand as a deposit a couple of weeks ago so he could go out and buy the necessary planking; haven't seen him since... but I know where he lives and he's smaller than me)...

3) The mother of all kitchen stoves (plus smouldering paella)...

4) Someone with a long pointy nose who wishes to remain anonymous (not surprising with that proboscis) who's been re-plastering one of our bedroom walls, from whom I hope to learn the basics of bishboshing so that I may then endeavour to re-plaster various bits of the rest of the house without outside assistance. Unfortunately I've been too busy to really concentrate on his superb technique and advanced skills so yes, you've guessed it, I've learnt virtually zero. Lovely wall though...

Hah! Success! Loaded! I achieved the impossible not by conventional means (the following should be of great interest to anyone who's nerdically-inclined), but by clicking on an already loaded photo and working forwards from there to the latest four uploaded pics (but not yet 'blogged' - this being an impossibilty a ce moment), then selecting their code reference numbers (individually and in separate operations), which I then dropped into the relevant position on the 'edit' copy and finally 'saving' (if you're confused, imagine how I felt). And all because the 'select files from your media' button has decided to get shirty and declare itself 'non-functional'. Fascinating stuff, huh? And I invented this method myself (not bad for a confirmed Luddite, eh?).

Tell you what... after completing this mind-numbing exercise, anyone, yes ANYONE, who not only finds computers interesting but, worse still, is fascinated by their mysterious workings and continuing development in terms of speed, size and potential for boring the pants off 99.99% of the world's population (73.4% if you exclude nerdy non-smoking Californians and the Zombieites of Woking and Basingstoke), has to be totally stark-raving bonkers.

Incidentally, Grumps' hilarious quip regarding the photos is only amusing if you realise that it was written before I managed to upload them. With the photos finally loaded, it sounds like something my Mum would have said.

I'm going for a sit-down. I need a rest.