Angie Baby

Sitting in the dentist chair, repairing two fillings. Cotton stuffed between my gums and teeth, mouth open, drill drilling I need to swallow but isn’t this stuff poison for one’s guts? Need telepathic power to alert the assistant, get the saliva sucker-tube back in mouth but she’s texting someone, of course she is. The horrible radio station plays another song. It’s either Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Angie Baby or something from Outskirts. The dentist asks if I still do music, isn’t that like asking a Portuguese speaker if they still seek Portuguese? If my mouth wasn’t now a straight jacket I might answer asking do you still take Mastercard. She says her brother does musical theatre, have you ever? I nod yes and think about music I wrote for The Rat King by Maggie Macdonald and then mind replays theatre pieces with Anand Rajaram and Sean Dixon. I would like to tell her about them but there’s all that cotton and the drill. She says she envies me, wishes she had stayed with music lessons when she was girl, it’s too late now right? Try telling her with my eyes it is not too late. She’s fast, done within 30 minutes, before leaving says don’t eat anything until the freezing wears off you might bite yourself. Our roles could be reversed, I could be repairing her music ability after freezing the parts that are too reactive to scales. Might also be wise to talk about that radio station she favours, try some new tunes. She should be careful not to hurt herself listening.

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