Mouthing Off
I was back in the dentist's chair this morning having finally got around to the appointment I was told to arrange several weeks ago. Fifteen minutes with the hygenist, followed by another half hour to replace a leaky filling. The first injection didn't quite freeze my mouth the way it's supposed to and when the drilling began I wanted to jump out of the chair and ricochet off the ceiling. Instead, I maintained my dignity, confined myself to a slight shudder and the dentist agreed to give me another jab. Of course, by the time the job was done, the entire right side of my mouth was drooping off my face like a grey blancmange.
Fifteen minutes later I burst into a meeting at Queen Margaret Drive and make my apologies using a combination of mumbles and gestures while wiping the drool from my face with a crumpled tissue. To make matters worse, my colleague who is chairing the meeting tells me she has recently had the roof of her mouth stiched and temporarily speaks with a lisp. The dialogue between us begins to resemble a Marx Brothers movie.
At the next meeting, things get worse because three paricpants are joining us via conference call from Aberdeen and Edinburgh. This is inaudible at the best of times, but now they have the added difficulty of understanding my frozen-mouthed babble. They seem to be coping but, ironically, they can't make out the words of our Head of Drama, Patrick Rayner who projects with enviable eloquence and razor-sharp diction . I end up translating his contribution.
So if, in a few weeks time, you open your Radio Times to see that we've launched new programmes enitled Good Borning Thotland and Sportsthound, you'll know where it all went wrong.
