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Another six hours in the dentist’s chair. Six. Hours.
Spread over three days, as if to prolong the fun. Drilling, tapping, scraping, and then that moment when they pour in the Play‑Doh‑stuff that makes you gag, retch, and question every life choice that led you to this chair with metal posts sticking out of your mouth like an industrial art .

But — and this is the surprising bit — Mrs Reconstructist is beginning to melt. Or I’ve worn her down.

This is the same stern, no‑nonsense, steel‑eyed dental professional who could probably rebuild a jaw while simultaneously filing her tax return. And yet, somewhere between the forceps, the suction tube, and my increasingly unhinged stories, she has started to laugh. Properly laugh. The nurses too. The waiting room must think we’re delirious or inhaling anaesthetic or something.

This week’s story was the wedding dress.

I told her how I bought mine in Bedford, despite living in London at the time. One of my sisters lived here, so I came up for the day, wandered into a shop, and emerged with a dress that looked exactly like a meringue. Every wedding we went to that year had a bride in a meringue. Even better: the shop window in Bedford has not changed in forty years. Same mannequins. Same dresses. Same haze of taffeta.

Mrs Reconstructist nearly dropped her forceps.
“Meringues!” she shouted , and the nurses needed an explanation- they are far to young to know about meringues .
The receptionist at this clinic is the happiest -smiliest- loud- fun lady ever . Knows everyone. Knows what to do and when. No Rottweilers here. It’s infectious- that waiting room has it in stereo now from reception to reconstructive room the bubbling laughter is building. Receptionist also handed me the quote for the rest of the reconstruction work. She had the empathy to say that she decided not to add it up or put the total in – its just alot of £450 £500 ‘s . I thanked her stuffed it in my bag after signing on the dotted line. What choice do I actually have?

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Meanwhile, in Urology Land…

Next week is the BAUS Annual Conference — the British Association of Urological Surgeons. Patients, of course, are not allowed to attend. We are far too frightening. Imagine the chaos if someone with lived experience wandered in and asked a question.

But for reasons known only to her, the CEO wanted to speak to me. So I did.

I explained UTIs. I explained benign bladder conditions. I explained ketamine bladder in children. I explained end‑of‑life continence care. I explained that women exist. I even suggested — gently, politely, with only a hint of annoyance — that perhaps their conference might consider having women speakers. Or sessions on women’s health. Or anything that isn’t exclusively about men and their prostates.

She said she was “on the case”.
I’m not sure I believe her.
But let’s see.

Meanwhile something is happening in the epic ERIC software at UCLH. Appointments appear but with no details so no idea who or what to expect. Then out of the blue looks like Dipstick made an appointment to see me. But it’s got cancelled. But last night another appeared. It says urology. Maybe that’s Dipstick. Whatever. It’ll get cancelled ! That way waiting lists can magically evaporate. Fantastic. Thanks Wes great legacy. .

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Finally to explain a Pain Reframe Retreat.

Some errr 10 or more years ago when the spine stuff was at its worst, my amazing GP ( now something very important in GP land) suggested he refer me to a pain clinic whilst I awaited the trial, assessment etc for spinal implant surgery. He sent me to Milton Keynes:

‘ better than the local provision’. It was there that I met an incredible team offering a basket of care. Consultant – imaging, medication and special patches, Acupunture – I had long forgotten my needle phobia and Pscyhologist. Dr Sue. I accepted evertyhing on offer. Dr Sue and I immediately seemed to get on. Not least perhaps because she mentioned : ‘you are not like my usual patients’!

A few years later Sue and I , crossed paths socially again, no longer bound by NHS land she works in private practice. We ended up doing a some work bits together, and she talked me into joining boxercise. Now, under the watchful eye of the inimitable pocket rocket Larissa, we spend most of the class chatting and laughing — occasionally remembering to jab, cross, duck or weave in something like the right order without actually hitting anyone .Sue, Larissa and I have planned to hold a Pain Reframe Retreat, and it’s going to be the absolute antithesis of the pain‑therapy purgatory I endured in London while being assessed for the stimulator. Back then, the word pacing made me groan, 50 PowerPoints slides about the side effects of paracetamol made me glaze over, and half the group either cried on morphine or slept through, on morphine.
My “coping strategies” didn’t exactly go down well. I’d say things like, “Well, I swim — especially in lakes, because if my bladder has a funny turn no one knows and I warm up.” Not a flicker. Not even when I suggested gin as a strategy.
The psych’s verdict was clear enough: perhaps don’t come to the group therapy sessions!

The Pain Reframe then, is going to be different. Very different…it is even to be held at my happy place- the lake. !