Crop circles

I live in the land of crop circles. They appear about now, and proliferate towards harvest, and drive the farmers mad (canny ones put collecting boxes in the middle of each circle to capitalise on the situation or, as they put it, to help recoup their losses). For some time I believed in the little green men theory, but the talk down at The Barge - the pub where the circle-makers gather - has put paid to that. Nonetheless, people collect in the middle of crop circles to bond or pray or hug or whatever crop circle worshippers do, and I met some of them today. Had I seen flashing lights and UFOs? they asked eagerly, and I said no, and told them about the people down at The Barge. But afterwards, I felt ashamed, as if I'd just told someone there wasn't a Father Christmas or a tooth fairy, because believing in little green men is fun, and believing in the people down at The Barge isn't.

Of Dental Hygiene

I try very hard to like dental hygienists, because on the whole they are nice people, but I do have one problem with them. I come in all cheery with my nice clean teeth and healthy (I think) gums, and the hygienist picks up a sharp instrument and digs away with it until my gums bleed. Then the following conversation takes place. Always.
DH "Ha! Gum disease!"
Me "That's because you poked them!"
DH "Nope. Gum disease."
Me "But they're fine. They don't hurt and they don't bleed, or only when you poke them."
DH (changing tack) "You can't see what I see."
Me "Possibly not. But I know what they feel like."
DH (dreamily) "Some surgeries have little cameras, and you can show the patients what their gums look like."
Me "Uuuuuuungh..." because by now she's back in there and I'm lying with my mouth wide open, thinking how much I don't want to see what my gums look like, and what will they think of next?
She then (today) told me about her 40th birthday treat (a trip to the foothills of Everest) and her (nice) stepson and why she was wearing a flower in her hair, and when I'd got my mouth back, we exchanged gory stories about the smelliest jobs we'd ever had to do (this was with my nursing cap on). If anyone reads this, and they would really like to know what my smelliest job was, I'll email it to you, but actually you don't want to know.

Of healing builders

Last week I went to see a healer. He's a little builder with a strange nickname beginning with P (best not say what for reasons of confidentiality) who has only recently discovered that he has powers of healing, and he came highly recommended. So there we were, P and I, in the middle of this building site, surrounded by burly men with wheelbarrows, with P's hand on my bottom (or thereabouts) and P telling me how he goes to Heaven on Saturday afternoons, and yes, there is a Hell, he's seen it too ("you don't want to go there," says P. Too right I don't), and in about a week I'll be healed. Afterwards, he gave me a hug and sent me on my way. A week later, I'm not healed. Not at all. And have been gullible enough to be a bit disappointed. My daughter, who is even more gullible, is even more disappointed (although P appears to have been able to heal her), and my scientific sons, one of whom is a doctor, who were very cynical about the whole thing, have been kind enough not to enquire. So I shall have to resort to normal medicine and have an operation, which is a nuisance. But I am bemused by P and his tales of Heaven and Hell and his assurances that everything will be All Right In The End (unless you're a paedophile, says P, although I think this bit may just be wishful thinking on the part of P). A bit of me believes in P, and quite a lot of me doesn't. But all these builders, busy building things while P heals people, seem to believe in him, because he appears to have healed most of them in some way or another. So why not me? It's all very odd.

Cyber party

I suppose I have to be first, as it's my party. So I shall have a pint of bitter and a bag of pork scratchings, and I shall invite Desmond Tutu, because of his wonderful smile.