Speakin' out...

Ok so it's been a couple of days since my last entry and in that time I've been poked by a dentist and found a fabulous new Barbara Streisand album "Guilty Too" that's 3 years old but is truly the diva at her best. When I say I've been poked by a dentist, my tongue is not in my cheek though my heart is definately in my throat. Truth be told, I won't be blinding anyone with my Hollywood smile and though I'm not exactly Paul Potts pre-pennies I don't have flashy gnashers. A few months ago, I bit the bullet and yanked out a painful tooth with the aid of pliers and a bottle of Scotch and though it hasn't caused me many problems it is a constant bug bear to remember which side to chew on. So I took myself along to the dentist free of fear or panic and sat patiently until my number was called, the inevitable whizz of the drill screaming out around the room of glum looking patients thumbing nervously through old copies of 'Bella' and 'Woman's Own'. I was immersed in a tale of Naomi, a 14 year old from Grimsby who'd given birth in the queue at Salisbury's ("How many Nectar points for a baby Janice?") when my number came up. With the courage of Scott and Nelson, I trolled through into the surgery room and allowed myself to be lowered into the tongue shaped chair that has seen more pain and misery than Britney's bathroom floor.

Prod. Prod. Poke. Scrape. And then a series of numbers which had me convinced for a minute that my mouth had a barcode I hadn't seen before. I looked up at the light, I tasted the metallic tang of the mirror and something inside me gurgled as the inevitable words "root canal" and "local anaesthetic" were delivered with sado-masochistic glee from a man who's seen more open mouths than Jordan and rivals her bust measurement considerably. As the nurse scrambled behind me and the clatter of shiny instruments ceased, I siezed my chance as fear took hold and my stomach retched. "Could I start treatment at a later date?", I said trying to hide my worry behind cut glass vowels. "Of course", replied Dr Drill. So the drums of the gallows can now be heard until Tuesday when I undertake the first of two hideous painful appointments with some of the most evil instruments ever devised. And it got me to thinking, why do we let fear stop us doing something that is so obviously beneficial?

In this case the fear was twofold. There was the expected fear of being faced with pain but there was the unexpected fear of asking the dentist not to stick a needle in my gums. I'm usually not backward in coming forward and I've been known not to suffer fools gladly in times of crisis. For example, I'm the one in the queue at Marks and Spencer's who actually says, "Don't put the gin on top of the rolls please" whereas most folks would happily bite their tongue and go home with flat baps. But when we don't want something to happen, why don't we speak out and stop it? Of course there's some things we can't prevent such as rain. As much as I'd love to, I don't have a hotline to the big guy upstairs where I can exercise my statutory rights and demand an end to those April showers which have been coming our way recently. I do however, have the right and the power to complain if things go wrong or to ask someone not to do something that's going to make my life a little bit more intolerable. The British seem to have been bred into being frightened to speak out, so much so that if someone boarded a train covered in dog shit the majority of passengers would bury their heads in their Harry Potter and truck through it.

Well, the war is over folks and careless talk doesn't actually cost lives. People can speak out about China's occupation of Tibet but of the Dalai Lama pushed in front of them at Tesco's they'd exercise English politeness and let him walk over them in his saffron robes. Why are we so frightened to speak? Yesterday I waited 10 minutes for a bus. When it came, a lady who'd just arrived at the bus stop ran up to the door and pushed me back with her ass. What I should have done is voiced my discontent and actually say, "Do you mind? I was here first". What did I do? I beeped my Oyster card and sat down. Now if I'd said what I should have said, that lady may well have said sorry and never pushed in front of a fellow passenger again. Or she could have said, "Bollocks" and continued to be insufferably rude but I could have satisfied myself with the knowledge that I'd stood up to reclaim my personal space. Life is full of problems and we seem to just let them pass by or we store the anger up for the next barney we have with our partners but I've always been told that speaking about problems actually helps. So come on people, speak out and don't be crippled by the anxiety of speaking your mind. And if they do tell you bollocks, mace 'em. Keep it glam gals. xXx