This was the view looking up from the dentist’s chair in which I spent a not-entirely-enjoyable 40 minutes this morning. Could have been worse I suppose — and would have been, before convenient local anaesthetics were invented.
A twinge in my leg meant I booked myself in for a massage, but any images that word may conjure up, of women lying blissfully on a couch while being gently caressed, can be dismissed in favour of being wrestled and half-beaten into submission. At least I did not plump for the acupuncture; this model in the foyer of the House of Pain suggests there are far too many points of fresh, new torture to discover on the human body.
We are still above water, for now. Let’s move on to other things.
This photo is not bad considering I was slumped forward, half-naked, on a bench, sticking my camera over my shoulder and shooting blindly, while in the middle of a four-hour session, the first half of which was marked by stoic acceptance, the second half by suffering and pain. Yes, my tattoo is under way. This is Clare at work, you may see here again in a few weeks’ time.
Being 42 