Teeth, hips and sips of tea

So it is true that the only thing harder to find these days than decent help is an NHS dentist.

My old dentist decided to go private so I found myself tasked with finding a replacement. I called NHS Direct and was given the number of a service which would list all the dentists in my area accepting NHS patients. There are, as it turns out, only three dentists in the 'Edinburgh area' who are willing to take on NHS patients; one in Morningside, one in Craigmillar and one in Portobello. As I don't consider Portobello to be in the 'Edinburgh area' and a visit to a Craigmillar dentist would probably result in my teeth being knocked out on the way, I opted for the dentist in Morningside. I made an appointment and took a bus out there in my lunch-hour. My dentist told me he'd been living in Marbella for the last eight years and had made a fortune, and that's why he was now offering NHS care; doing his bit for society and all that. It didn't stop him from trying to encourage me to opt for a few private treatments though!

At the risk of sounding a bit like 'Jen' of 'Jen & Gary' infamy, another task I found difficult and stressful was shopping with a baby and an 8-year old. It's not that I've ever looked on parenting as a walk in the park, it's just that seeing your university flat-mate doing it really puts things into perspective.

Leanne had told me some time ago that she could do with some new clothes, especially as she is returning to work following maternity leave. She admitted that six months of parenting had left her slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of clothes-shopping and I, in true Trinny&Susannah style, volunteered my fashionista services.

We finally got round to Leanne's shopping trip last Saturday. It was supposed to be just us, but then Craig was paintballing for his nephew's 21st birthday and couldn't look after Ella. Then Skye, Craig's 8-year old daughter, wanted to come with us too.

I met Leanne and the kids at the Gallery cafe. We started our shopping experience in Next. Right away, it was difficult navigating the shop floor with the buggy. Getting the buggy into the changing rooms was even more problematic. Skye was really well behaved, but - like any child - still needs to be listened to and interacted with. Ella is a superstar, but got a bit upset when she woke up. As a result, Leanne tried on items of clothing as quickly as she could, I held Ella and soothed her while offering feedback on Leanne's outfits, and we both tried our best to chat to Skye.

One shop down and Ella needed to be fed, watered and changed. We went to Debenhams cafe. Leanne and Ella took the elevator. Skye wanted to use the escalator, so I went with her. An hour later and we hit another shop. To save the effort of taking the buggy round, I did a quick reconnaissance of Per Una but found nothing doing.

Skye had been an angel, so Leanne agreed to take her to Jenners toy department. Once inside, I realised the time and hassle it would be for us to take Ella downstairs, so I offered to wait in the perfumery department with the buggy. Leanne was visibly relieved.

As I was walking around the store, I struggled to weave in and out of the displays and became convinced that I was going to knock everything over if I didn't get out NOW! I struggled to open the shop doors, struggled to get the buggy through, and, finally, struggled down the two front steps and into the sunshine.

Lastly, we ventured onto Dorothy Perkins, Principles and Top Shop - which is the least buggy-friendly shop in the world. (Strange considering it is the M&S of teenage mums.) The elevators were so old that I had to fight to get the buggy into the lift. By this point we were all tired, thirsty and hungry. I, in my non-mother state, suggested we go to Vin Caffe. This was a bad idea. There was no plain food that Skye liked. The tables were cramped and the toilets were all the way upstairs - sans baby-changing facilities - making it difficult for Leanne to change Ella.

By this time, Leanne had to be getting back to start Ella's bedtime routine. We said goodbye and Leanne almost wept with gratitude. After only a few hours as an extra pair of hands, I could see why. I now completely understand why some women give birth and then never ever want to leave the house again.

Saturday night, I headed out to Hendrick's to meet Mog and Kwan-Nga. Mog had invited us out to a football awards dinner that one of her colleagues was involved in. We went upstairs in the Golfe Tavern, to a room that smelt ominously of sweaty men, farts and chicken wings. In an effort to create some sort of air circulation, we danced solidly for the next three hours. Afterwards I began to fear my style of dancing might make me a prime candidate for a hip replacement in the not too distant future.

As we walked home, my hips, thighs and knees were all still singing. I think my problem is that I dance from the hips down, with all my movement concentrated in the thigh department (which, I know, sounds like some pretty weird dancing).

On Sunday morning I woke up, still aching and barely able to move, and thought "this is what Harrison Ford must feel like these days". I then realised I hadn't put my incontinence pants on and had to pull the emergency chord for help.

Andrew came to visit and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the Water of Leith, followed by a Peroni and a lemon sorbet in Pizza Express. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time Andrew left. Determined not to be thwarted in my bid for jogging-suit & DVD combo heaven this Sunday, I applied the jogging-suit, turned off both phones and flicked the buzzer to privacy.

I settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea. The window was open. I could hear the birds quietly chirping and nothing else. The sun was just starting to go down and the air was still. I took a sip of tea, let my head fall back against the sofa and almost had an orgasm from the sheer bliss of it all. I tried to imprint that moment into my memory.

I succeeded; in the short term at least, because I recaptured it at work on Monday morning and spent the rest of the day in afterglow.

Who's afraid of ...

some time off - finally!

I certainly packed it in last week. Much the same as I do at the self-service olive bar in Sainsbury's, I added more and more and stubbornly forced down the lid. A few people looked on astounded as I, somewhat more harassed than usual, got it all together - eventually.

Work was busy. I am truly a magnet for loose ends. In every job, I accumulate masses of them, and always in addition to a messy desk - a really messy desk. At 5pm on my last day my colleagues expressed concern (does it still qualify as concern if they are laughing heartily?) when they noticed I hadn't even started to clear my desk. Employing my trademark tidying move (large bin bag in one hand; full-span, catch-all sweeping manoeuvre with the other arm), I was done by 7pm.

Crazily, I'd arranged to meet Duncan and Moranna for a bite to eat before heading to an 8'clock appointment I'd made months ago. As I locked up the office for the last time at 7pm, I realised I had one hour in which to get from Leith to the west end - eat something - and then get to Marchmont. It was certainly ambitious (pronounced stew-pid).

I was in Pizza Express by 7.15 and managed to fit in a diet coke and some bruschetta before it was time to leave. I was sitting in traffic trying to head up Lothian Road when a man driving a van in the opposite direction rolled down his window and tried to tell me something. I spent about 30 seconds pressing the button to lower my window without any success, only to discover that I was repeatedly locking and unlocking the doors. I figured he was trying to tell me the hold-up was serious so I jumped into action. After a concerning number of illegal driving manoeuvres and repetitive strain injury in the middle finger of my right hand, I arrived at my appointment slightly late and excessively agitated.

I was far more organised the next day as I flew down to London to spend the weekend with Andrew. I was starving by the time I arrived at Paddington and decided to get a breakfast bagel. I sat down and began to eat it when I realised the man sitting opposite was watching me intently. He started rocking back and forward in his seat before leaving. I relaxed - a little - and then spotted him coming back. He sat down opposite me again, outstretched his arms and held the front cover of the magazine out towards me whilst continuing to stare intently. It was not the most comfortable eating experience I've ever had.

Andrew and I met outside his workplace (the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square) and he told me I was just in time to see the 'crazy pigeon-feeding woman'. As if by magic, she appeared armed with two large bags of grain. She scooped some up in her hand and about 3,000 pigeons descended on her - it was horribly fascinating. She walked round in a circle letting the grains fall through her fingers and the pigeons continued to land on top of the trail. It would have made an excellent Art-Attack. The wind generated by the pigeons' wings caused her skirt to flap. It took Andrew .000025 seconds to point out that she was wearing red knickers. I hadn't noticed at first, so spent a few moments with my head tilted trying to get a better view. I can now confirm she was wearing red knickers. We also had a bit of a discussion about whether or not she was really a man, or at least had been at some point. It was hard to get a good look at her face through the fog of pigeons but I noted she was wearing alarmingly bright red lipstick (surely the true travesty of the transvestite/transexual). Andrew suggested that she was maybe just trying to accessorize with the knickers. We remain undecided.

That night I slept in a tented room with a cat on my head. It was not the most comfortable sleeping experience I'd ever had (but it was still better than the time that guy died on top of me). Andrew and I sailed down to Greenwich swigging on our Red Bulls like a right pair of chavs (or pikeys as they say 'dan sath'). We headed to the Apollo Theatre that night with Lulu (the older woman Andrew lives with - she has a jewellery empire). We saw Kathleen Turner in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. It's undoubtedly the finest piece of theatre I've ever seen. Bill Irwin played George to Turner's Martha and stole the show. Go see it! We got the tube home debating how depressing the ending really is (for me - not really, for Andrew and Lulu - somewhat more).

On Sunday Andrew took me to Tate Britain to see the Gothic Nightmares exhibition. It was really busy which made it quite difficult to get round things properly. I liked a few of the paintings but found the display quite repetitive. Andrew decided to embarrass me while I was looking at the erotic section by loudly exclaiming that he knew he'd find me checking out the dirty stuff. To be honest, it was my favourite bit. I also liked Chris Ofili's Upper Room which consists of thirteen large paintings of the same monkey in a different colour. The pictures stand on elephant dung supports. I thought it was funky and cool and pretty fantastic as far as modern art goes. Andrew thinks I'm a philistine. We did agree on how much we both hated Constable though. Andrew pointed out that Constable influenced the impressionists and I said that I could see that they had copied his blurry style but they were better cause at least their landscapes and people were bright and colourful and less depressing. I'm so glad none of the Tate's hard-core faithful overheard me. I may have been thrown out for embarrassing them with such a high-level and intellectual analysis.

I caught the late flight home on Sunday night, looking forward to a whole week off. Sheer bliss.