My teeth and I have this mutual arrangement: I don’t bother them with difficult, crunchy foods like vegetables, and they don’t bother me by hurting. The same goes for dentists: I don’t make them take time out of their busy schedules to fiddle around in my mouth; they don’t drag me off the street and perform Marathon Man-styled tortures on me. All very equitable. All very friendly. Until last week…

I wouldn’t have been so miffed, if I had been breaking my rules, but the offending delicacy was not a breeze block, rolled steel joist or Stealth bomber. It was a slice of pizza, hardly the most challenging foodstuff known to man. But it was enough. At first, I thought I had merely got something stuck in a back molar on the left-hand side – but when I tried to dislodge it, I discovered a yawning gulf where the back of the tooth used to be.

The odd thing was how it didn’t hurt at all, and continued not hurting, despite my prodding at it sporadically with my tongue for the next couple of days. It was kinda therapeutic, like a dental version of scab-picking, but I tried to control myself for fear of all 32 teeth (well, 31.5 now) cascading out of my head in some bizarre domino effect. [I had a dream like that once: psychological interpretations of this found elsewhere on the Net were so radically different as to be useless – everything from “an archetypal image of the dreamer’s sense of confidence and competence” to “fear of sexual impotence”!]

Lacking in dental insurance, I briefly considered flying back to Britain for treatment on the good old NHS – even though my last regular dentist, in Scotland, died suddenly in circumstances that were never really explained to my satisfaction. However, wiser council (that’ll be Chris, in her usual role as calming influence!) prevailed, and I booked in with the family practitioner. After an initial consultation, it was decided to patch up things in there temporarily until the (hastily-acquired) dental insurance kicks in for large-scale treatment like this next year.

The actual patching was a lengthy and rougher affair, necessitating two shots of Novocaine, the first proving not enough to stifle my wriggling as the drill ground out what was left of the tooth. It was weird, feeling someone drilling away inside your mouth, seeing smoke rising from your face, yet the expected agony connected with such events was conspicuous by its absence. The anaesthetic left the entire left hand side of my face feeling as if it belonged to someone else – whose tongue is this, and what is it doing in my mouth? – but the amusement to be had hitting yourself in the face and not feeling a thing is significant.

Was pleasantly surprised by the cost – at $225, it probably wasn’t much more that I’d have ended up paying on the NHS for similar treatment. They’re muttering about bringing me back in for some fillings they discovered while they were in there, but I am already ahead of them, anticipating loading up on “da bling bling”, as I believe it is called by modern urban youth, and acquiring a mouthful of gold. Otherwise, I will be more than happy to return to our previous arrangement of mutual non-interference.

There are certain animals that eat their own young, and I’m really quite surprised the rate of this isn’t higher among humans. Children are like war – every now and again, it’s good to have a small one, albeit only to remind you of why they’re not a good way to live. At the moment, we are doing pseudo-parental duty, in that we are taking care of two small proto-humans belonging to Chris’s step-daugher, who is off looking at houses.

This is, of course, the royal “we”. I did ask if there was anything I could do to help, but Chris, bless her heart, pretended not to hear me as she inserted the bottle, plugging a mewling infant. But if a wriggling package ever needs to be held at arm’s length, for perhaps as long as 30 seconds, I’m your man. Though do have to say, all is, for the moment, calm and quiet on the child front, and that’s without the need for the application of duct-tape.

It’s amazing the power that a Disney movie can exercise, and there is rapt attention in the room. I think they must insert subliminal messages on the tapes: “be calm…look at the cute animals…purchase the merchandise…” If only there were Matrix-like vats, in which babies could be inserted, with a continuous stream of animated features piped in until the subjects reached maturity, and could be popped out into the world as fully-functioning adults. Even I might be prepared to contemplate having kids then.

When I look at a baby, I can’t help wondering what it’s thinking about. There’s clearly nothing being wasted on survival work – finding stuff to eat, keeping warm, avoiding enemies – so I think there’s a great deal of unused brain capacity rattling around. Maybe we should wire a couple of hundred infants together in a neural network and see what comes out. Possibly nothing more than a gurgled musak version of Girl From Ipanema, the brain’s equivalent of being kept on hold for the first three years, but just possibly we might discover the source of that expression of absolute and beatific calm.

I think it’s the long-term responsibility that puts me off having kids. Gazelles have it right: twenty minutes after birth, you’re galloping across the prairie, and if you’re not, here come the vultures with their tickets to the all-you-can-gobble buffet. For the human race, it’s at least a dozen years before they can safely be left at home to their own devices, and until then it’s like having a ball and chain tied to your leg, that needs to be fed three times a day.

We were at the local wrestling federation last night, and a woman in the front row was carrying her new-born in her arms. To misquote Reese Witherspoon. “Look at you, you have a baby! In a brawl!” I was hoping that at some point, one of the participants would grab it and start hitting his opponent over the head with it. This probably explains why I have never been asked to run a wrestling promotion. Hey, I’m not cruel, I’d have used a stunt infant…

A significant step forward has been taken this week in the evolution of our business; we have become employers, rather than employees! Okay, admittedly we’re only talking our teenage daughter, Emily, and one of her friends, but it’s the first time I have ever been actively involved in paying someone to work for me. Even in the dark decade at HSBC, while there were occasional attempts to inflict responsibility on me, these were always resisted strenuously. My laissez-faire approach to such things (summarised as, “I won’t hassle you, you don’t hassle me”) meant I was never tagged for my leadership potential. Which is just the way I wanted it, given the sense of humour removal and frontal lobotomy which seemed to be required once you reached a certain level there.

However, I now find myself the co-employer of a workforce of two, albeit a workforce only there for two hours a day after school. Old habits die hard though, and I have largely avoided the lengthy, tedious and on-going training process, mainly consisting of teaching them the difference between poppy and picture jasper. This is likely because I’m not sure I know the difference, so such things are far better left to Chris, who could likely assemble a fetching necklace/bracelet set, in less than 60 seconds, under conditions of total darkness.

No, my role in this business deals more with paperwork than the gemstones, with the occasional assist in areas like sterling silver letter blocks, where all you need is a working knowledge of the alphabet. I can also cope if the item comes in a box with its name written in marker on the top. I know the limits of my competence, and am entirely content to work within them. It will not, therefore, be too long before my employees’ knowledge (let’s just say that again…”my employees”…cool!) will surpass mine in certain areas. It hasn’t quite happened yet, going by the comment overheard yesterday, specifically, “What colour is black onyx?”

I do like to think we are lenient bosses in most areas, though we did have to forbid the use of their mobile phones during “business hours”, or else we’d never get any work out of them! We also have supreme right of command and control over the CD player; if feeling particularly generous, we may allow them to slip one disc of their choice into the selection. There is, however, only so much Pink we can stand, especially as we struggle to reconcile it with Emily’s avowed (newly discovered, but quite welcome) hatred of pop music. There’s also her belief that punk started with Blink 182; our attempts to enlighten her as to the role of obscure bands like the Sex Pistols have met with little success, but much eye-rolling.

Still, we have been impressed by the genuine work they’ve put in – think it was a stroke of genius by Chris to employ two of them, as it makes it more of a social experience. Previous attempts to employ Emily have terminated after less than 30 minutes in a welter of whining, sighing and suddenly discovered homework, but this seems, so far, to be working. And so is Emily. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some supervisory and adminstrative tasks to perform. 🙂

It’s our first anniversary already. First month that is, of course, it being precisely 31 days ago that I walked down the aisle at King’s College Chapel in Aberdeen. Except, technically, it was Chris that did the walking down, I just kinda slid in from the side. We both walked up the aisle though. Technical quibbles about which no-one cares in the slightest aside, it was an amazing, incredibly memorable day, not least for the torrential rain which poured down all morning – probably more than Phoenix managed in the entire first six months of the year.

We didn’t let that dampen our spirits though, despite one or two near disasters on the day, most notably Chris getting her wedding dress jammed in the front door of the apartment, without a key to open it. Much fervent application of wet-wipes by her and bridesmaid Abigail followed to remove the grease – to such success that they deserve a career endorsing moist towelettes. I was, fortunately, blissfully unaware of such things, being shut in a small subroom at the church with best man Steve and minister. Luckily, the room did not permit nervous pacing.

Chris’s trip up the aisle was in itself a tad nerve-wracking, since her veil proved rather more of a hindrance to vision than expected – I realised this when I saw her shoving the hymn sheet up under the veil, as it was the only way she could read it. Her journey might well have ended in a trip if it hadn’t been for my father (in his “giving the bride away” role) assisting her to negotiate the tricky chicane round Bishop Elphinstone’s sarcophagus.

Elphinstone was one of the founders of King’s, and as befitting his position, he is buried in the middle of the church, though his final resting place is so plain and unostentatious as to make it almost a stealth tomb. Apparently, they did have an ornate cover for it, but when they brought it to the church, it was too large to fit through the doors. It’s been sitting outside for several centuries now, testimony to the difficulty of getting a good workman in Aberdeen.

The actual ceremony was mercifully brief, or perhaps it just seemed that way, for I don’t remember much of it, and will be heavily reliant for my memories on the surreptitious video being recorded from the lap of a relation. I don’t think I embarrassed myself too badly during the hymns, even if it was rather like trying to karaoke a song you don’t know, and I found myself going in a different direction to the tune more often than I wanted. At these points, I kinda wished I hadn’t chosen the “make up for in volume, what you lack in musical ability” approach.

Before it really sank in, I was married, and the month since has flown past. In some ways, nothing much has changed, and I still find myself looking around when people refer to “your wife”, unsure whether they are talking to me. But this stasis is for the best. I don’t want anything to change, so it’s a relief to see that nothing appears to be. And there’s only 31 more days to our second anniversary…

By the time you read this, I’ll probably have left America, on my way back to Britain, having seen Phoenix for the last time as a single man. At time of writing, I have twelve days to go until I get married, a prospect which fills me full of…well, the odd thing is, I haven’t really come to terms with it yet. I don’t think it will until I find myself standing at the altar, hearing “Dah-dum-de-dum…” music playing, watching the most beautiful woman in the world walk down the aisle, ready to begin the rest of her life with me [which will forever be a source of amazement to me!]. Then, it might just sink in. 😉

Part of me – the part which thought I’d never get married – says it’s an excuse for a good party (two, actually) and lots of presents, not to mention five weeks off work. But somewhere in the back of my skull, tucked next to the lizard brain but rather more smartly dresses, is a chunk that whispers that this is the most important day of my life. I think this part was passed down from my mother, because we have frequently to remind ourselves who is actually getting married, us or her. Still, she who pays for the reception calls the tune – just as long as it isn’t country and western.

Do have to say that getting married is a hassle. If we had to do it over again, it would probably involve just the two of us, Las Vegas, an Elvis impersonator and screw the presents (we’d probably keep the five weeks off work though). But if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well…5,000 miles away…in three different towns…over a six-day period. Er, is this the point where I say something like, “It seemed a good idea at the time”?

It is, in any event, far too late to pull out – without bringing down the apocalypse, in the shape of The Wrath of Mum. This is likely to be the only chance she gets to see one of her offspring marry (my sister is 41 and stoically single), and given she brought me into this world, raised me, and is largely responsible for me being who I am, it’s the least we can do. Especially since all we really have to do is show up, the organisation of the Forres reception having largely been taken care of from that end.

Because of the location in Scotland, it’s going to be a hugely unbalanced affair: I’ll have all my relations there, Chris will have, at most, two – and possibly not even those. This is something of a double-edged sword; I’ll know everybody, but it likely means I’ll have to be on my best behaviour to avoid a scandal which will ripple through the family for decades to come. Chris, on the other hand, can relax, safe in the knowledge that she’ll never see most of these people ever again. Besides, she’s foreign…whatever my one true love does, we can just claim it’s a Cuban tradition. 🙂

We will, however, both be quite glad when it’s all over and we can relax, heading off for the honeymoon, training round Europe. If you’re short of a TC-fix while we’re away, we’ve set up a wedding diary online where you can follow our progress, be it triumphant or disastrous (and depending on us being able to find Internet access in our current location). Otherwise, the next time you hear from me, I’ll be a deliriously happy married man…