My wisdom teeth are now in a clinical waste bin somewhere

Well, it turned out that I didn't have to wait for nearly as long as I had suspected to get my wisdom tooth operation rescheduled. Amazingly, there was a slot available for me last Wednesday, and so I duly trudged off to the hospital yet again, slightly nervous but not overly bothered: after all, I'd done all the mental preparation and panicking a fortnight earlier and could see no need to repeat it. The weather had, almost inevitably, turned white that morning, but fortunately this snow was of the unpleasant damp, slushy variety that although useless for building snowmen is nonetheless good in that it is rarely causes major traffic disruptions.

We arrived at the hospital in good time and headed to the Day Surgery Unit where my long-suffering boyfriend Richard dropped me off. There was apparently no room for friends and relatives to wait with the patients, and so while I settled down with a Terry Pratchett novel he ventured out to savour the many delights of Swindon (stop laughing at the back! it's twinned with Disney World, don’t you know). I'd only managed to read the few pages before I got called away to see the first of many medical professionals. I'm not entirely sure, but I think this first guy might have been the surgeon. He entered the waiting room, all gangly limbs swathed in ill-fitting blue scrubs and called out for 'Kiera Morgan'. Now, despite its worrying rise in trendiness due to the likes of Ms Knightley, Kiera is not as of yet a common name, and so I assumed this was me, and followed him into a small dark room. He pointed out, yet again, quite how awkward my wisdom teeth were, got me to re-sign a form, then sent me back to the waiting room.

A couple of pages of Pratchett later and my name was called again, correctly this time. A smiley nurse introduced herself with a 'my name is Helen', spoken as if following a script, and led me into another small dark room where she proceeded to take my blood pressure and weigh me; all the normal nursey things, but somehow made more sinister under the dim glare of the emergency lighting (apparently there was some kind of test going on with the electrics). The next call was from the anaesthetist, another friendly, jolly sort who exuded an air of competence - rather reassuring at seeing as she was the one who was going to be making sure that I didn’t wake up mid-operation.

Then, back to my book. Time passed, I managed about a chapter’s worth then another nurse called me over. Great news (for me, anyway)! The person who was at the top of the list hadn't turned up and so I would be the first to be operated on. I was told to get dressed into an NHS-regulation gown with NHS-regulation dressing gown over the top. Both of these garments were covered in a plethora of little ties which, despite their great number, didn’t seem to pair up in any sensible way. I did my best regardless, tying the sides of the clothing together in the most sensible way I could fathom, and so made myself half-decent. I briefly wondered what kind of operation the previous wearer of this get-up had undergone, but rapidly decided I’d rather not go there and banished such thoughts from my mind. As instructed, I placed my belongings into a locker then returned to my seat.

Alas, I was left to wait for a further 45 minutes. A whole three-quarters of an hour to fill and my book, my only source of entertainment, was locked away in a small metal box. Frustratingly I could see said small metal box; it was a mere four metres from me and yet it was completely inaccessible. Now, I am not very good at sitting quietly and doing nothing. Not very good at all. I fidgeted uncomfortably for a little while and then spotted a newspaper on a table. A newspaper! Something to read! Salvation was at hand. I rose, grabbed the paper and turned it over.
It was the Daily Mail.
Bugger.
Tentatively, I flicked through the first few pages, but depressingly the standard of journalism was exactly what one would expect from such a publication. Not wishing to risk polluting my brain with right-wing anti-immigrant bile any further I instead endeavoured to do the cryptic crossword. This was rather a tricky task given that I had no pen, but I persevered regardless.

At 2 o’clock on the dot I was called away by yet another nurse. Limping alarmingly, and attempting some small talk in a most unenthusiastic manner, she led me through a maze of corridors and past tens of operating theatres to a little room containing my anaesthetist. Here I was quickly put at ease, laid down on the bed, and injected with drugs. The world went funny for a few seconds and then drifted away.

I came to in the recovery room. I can vaguely remember it being a large room, but without many other beds in it. Being still very drowsy I wanted to immediately go back to sleep, but the nurse looking after me, Helen again I think, wanted to talk. She kept asking me all sorts of questions, many of which were just about me in general and not related to the operation or my current pain levels. This I found most annoying. I suppose she did it to ascertain how much the anaesthetic had really worn off, but responding to her questions with a seriously-inflated, painful face mostly covered by an oxygen mask was not the easiest of tasks. The friendly anaesthetist came over at one point and told me I’d done very well, a nice compliment, but I do feel that all I did was lie back unconscious, they did all the work. Apparently the operation itself went fine; it took over an hour rather than the standard 20 minutes, but it nonetheless proceeded without any problems

I was soon (I say soon, but I didn’t have any real concept of the passage of time at that point) taken back to the ward, where there was a new group of nurses. One came over and tried to get me up and dressed, but as this resulted in me almost falling over it was decided that more time in bed was in order. Eventually I regained full consciousness and was able to leave, after being provided with a brown paper bag full of drugs – not dodgy-looking at all! The ever-obliging Richard collected me and we drove back to Fairford. Annoyingly I then had to stay up until 10pm to take some of the pills- I would much rather have gone straight to bed.

Since then I have mostly been doing not a lot. Today is the first day I have been able to speak, and therefore write, without it being overly painful. The doing 'not a lot' has been wearing thin, as has my diet which has mostly consisted of soup. I suppose soup is nice but over the last few days I have developed a deep-seated dislike of it. I watch my parents eating their pizzas, pasta bakes and other such culinary delights and I inwardly seethe with jealousy. But things can only improve. After all, following several days with a face that I thought might burst if I pricked it with a pin, things have started to calm down. I look more like myself again, which is a relief as looking in mirrors and seeing an over-stuffed hamster staring back was freaking me out. These quibbles have been but minor inconveniences however: the most important thing is that the evil wisdom teeth are gone and so can trouble me no more. Hurrah!

Bullfinches

Bullfinches are quite secretive birds that are rarely seen; once spotted, however, they are unmistakable. Despite being only 15 cm or so in length, fairly standard for a finch, they look considerably larger due to their stocky, bullish shape. Adult males have a dark black cap, grey backs, black tails, white rump and, most strikingly, a bright reddish pink breast. In adult females the breast is a duller more plum-like colour which is less eye-catching but equally attractive.

Bullfinches can be found all over the UK, although they are most concentrated in the south east. They spend most of their time well-hidden in dense undergrowth in woodlands, but will sometimes venture into gardens, especially those which are large and contain plenty of shrubs. They are birds that like company, and will normally be found in a pair, or in a family group in the colder months. Their diet consists mainly of buds, berries and seeds, particularly those from the Ash tree. Unfortunately their penchant for the buds of fruit trees can make them hugely unpopular with orchard owners, who used to trap and kill hundreds of the birds. And on-form bullfinch can apparently destroy thirty buds per minute; it is unlikely to even eat all of these.

Bullfinches are not ones for flying great distances and rarely travel over 100 km in the UK. Their cousins in northern Europe are more adventurous, and often make migrations in search of food, but those here prefer to stay put, making use of garden seed feeders in times of scarcity. To breed, female bullfinches find concealed spots in bushes or small trees and build small, untidy nests from twigs, moss and fine roots. Into these they lay four to six greenish blue eggs which soon hatch into fledgelings that are looked after by both parents.

A female bullfinch seeing off the approach from a greenfinch on a snowy day in the garden.

Despite their reputation for shyness and secrecy, the family of bullfinches that have taken up residence in our garden this year are rather ballsy characters. Whereas most birds fly out to the feeder, hover there long enough to take a quick peck and then scarper, the bullfinches will quite happily sit on the feeder’s edge for extended periods of time, shooing off any other birds who try to get close. They are not at all easily spooked and give off a definite air of being 'in charge'... at least until something really big like a buzzard turns up!

Fieldfares

Fieldfares are the most colourful members of the thrush family. About the size of a blackbird at around 25 cm long, they are distinguished from other thrushes by their blue-grey heads, black tails and reddish breasts. They are common in northern Europe and Asia all year round but only visit the UK for the winter. Most fieldfares seen in Britain have made the substantial trek over from Scandinavia, arriving exhausted at our shores from October onwards. Once here they are most often head for farmer's fields and parkland, where they form large flocks with similar birds such as redwings. If food is scarce they will occasionally venture individually into gardens, taking advantage of grain and seed left out for them by humans, but by far the best place to see them is the open countryside.

Their diet mostly comprises worms and insects, which they peck their way through soft earth to find. If the ground freezes and this activity becomes impossible then they will feed instead on fruit and berries, with hawthorn bushes being a particular favourite. In the event that conditions become particularly harsh they may even give up on the UK and migrate further south into the continent. Fieldfares are rather nomadic and have no real loyalty concerning where they head to. They will migrate to a different place each year, if they bother to migrate at all; many are quite content not to fly all the way over the North Sea and hence remain all year in Scandinavia. Those who do come over here will return home by May at the latest in order to breed. They build their tidy nests in trees, often in groups, and lay five to six speckled blue eggs.

This particular fieldfare has spent all day in our garden, putting up with the odd bit of bullying from blackbirds in order to feast on some apples that we laid out this morning. He (or she, the sexes are very similar in appearance) has grown in confidence throughout the day and now seems quite content in what for him is not a particularly natural environment. In fact, as I write this he has grown sufficiently cocky that it is him chasing other birds away rather than the other way around! The snow has been lying thickly on the ground for over a week now, and so he has ventured away from his normal haunts in search of an alternative food supply, which we are more than happy to provide him with. As long as he leaves some for everyone else...

Recipe for an unexciting snooker match

Ingredients

• One Peter Ebdon. This is by far the most important ingredient, and without it your snooker match runs a high risk of being entertaining.
• One Marco Fu. Can be replaced with another player, as long as they possess a slow, steady and not-especially-inspirational style of play.
• One snooker arena. Best to make it a little too cold, with hard plastic seats that are a little too close together. After all, you don't want your audience to fall asleep, which they would most likely do if it was warm, comfortable and they had plenty of space to sprawl.
• One commentary box containing Willie Thorne and John Virgo. This is the best combination as neither understand that it isn't necessary for commentators to be talking all the bleeding time. Willie Thorne could be substituted for Terry Griffiths on a bad day, but you would probably risk having the occasional insightful observation, which is not the kind of thing we are setting out to achieve here.

Method

• Combine all the above ingredients.
• Try to pay attention to the match.
• Fail, and spend the time thinking about what's for dinner instead.

I've been to the snooker a fair few times now, and yesterday's first round Masters match between the aforementioned Peter Ebdon and Marco Fu was by far the least enjoyable that I've seen. To be honest, I hadn't been particularly impressed by the morning’s game, in which a competent but nowhere-near-his-best Mark Selby completely demolished Ding Junhui 6-1. In comparison to the afternoon session however, this first match was snooker gold.

Now, I wasn't exactly expecting a cracker. Peter Ebdon isn't a name one would usually associate with thrilling play, and I can't help but view him as a money-grabbing tax-dodger since his move to Dubai, but I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Marco Fu is much less abrasive character-wise, coming across as a perfectly pleasant, polite young man, but again he doesn't exactly set off fireworks when he's at the table. And unhappily for everyone in the audience, the combination of these two led to an almost mind-numbingly dull first few frames.

Given that they are both meant to be top-16 snooker players, their play initially was appalling, and unfortunately Marco never really improved. Their pot success rates were rock bottom, their safety exchanges were painfully bad, and on occasion Ebdon seemed to go for the kind of 'just hit it really hard and hope' shot that I used to play when I was in a bad mood. After much agonising tit for tat between the players and precious little break building Marco took the first two frames, only to have Ebdon claw back the next two to leave them equal going into the mid-session interval.

I don't know if Ebdon used this break to have a strong cup of coffee or simply to give himself a good kick up the backside, but when they restarted he seemed to have remembered how to play. The next four frames all went his way, and he did even pull off the occasional shot that was really rather good. Alas, this resurgence was too late for me. My attention had already wandered; I tried to pull myself back into the match but failed miserably. All in all, it wasn't a bad day, and it certainly hasn't put me off going to see more snooker in the future, but I do think I will tend to avoid these two, especially if they're playing together...

I think the NHS might have something against me

I shouldn't be able to write anything today. I should be sat in a chair feeling miserable with a hugely swollen face and four fewer teeth. However, I am sat here at my computer writing away with just the usual level of tooth and wrist pain, periodically staring outside at the snow and wondering if I should go and build our snowwoman a friend. So far I have managed to resist the temptation; after all my wrists are still feeling rather weak from yesterday's construction efforts, and somehow I get the impression that 'Luella' isn't all that sociable.

Since June last year my wisdom teeth have been giving me grief. The little darlings have decided that instead of just coming straight up and slotting in neatly at the back of my mouth it would be far more fun to burrow at funny angles into neighbouring teeth. Not surprisingly, this isn't all that pleasant for me. The resulting compression causes pain in all the other teeth, and whole areas of gum become tender. The mouth is a rather bacteria-rich environment and partially-protruding wisdom teeth are places in which they flourish, meaning things get nasty and infected to boot. Clearly, these teeth are far more trouble than they are worth, and so my dentist referred me to the Great Western Hospital in Swindon to get them removed as a matter of urgency.

Someone else's mouth, featuring wisdom teeth at silly angles. Think this looks bad? Mine are worse!

I am well aware from numerous wrist-related appointments that 'urgent' is often interpreted as meaning anything but. The referral was sent in August, I got an appointment for November, which I duly attended, at which x-rays were taken. A couple of forms were tortuously filled out by a student nurse (I had to help her with spelling and remind her that she had to take my blood pressure and weigh me), and that was that. I would be sent a letter with a time for an operation at some unknown point in the future which was likely to be at least twelve weeks away. By December the pain was so agonising that my dentist sent off another letter to the hospital to hurry things along. The result? An operation scheduled for January 6. Fantastic!

Yesterday duly arrived, and with it came snow, a good 20 cm deep. Nervous that this would result in a cancellation, I contacted the hospital admissions clerk who happily confirmed that the operation would go ahead as planned, no problems. Feeling relieved we set off, well-stocked with warm clothes and chocolate in case the roads became impassable. In fact, the roads were fine. A bit slippery in places, but nothing unmanageable providing you drove slowly and sensibly. It took us a whole hour to make the 17 mile trip from Fairford to the hospital, but we made it. And we weren't even in a Land Rover, but a humble Nissan Micra.

We arrived at the hospital half an hour before I needed to be there. It turned out that I was the only patient who'd bothered to turn up - great, we thought, I get to be done first and get to go home as quickly as possible. My entire team had made it to the hospital, I saw the nurse, got the wristband, saw the consultant who explained all the horrible things he was going to do to me (lots of chopping out bits of bone, sawing teeth in half before pulling them out - details I'd rather not know, to be honest). All that was left was to wait for the anaesthetist, who was overseeing another operation until two o'clock. We therefore sat down and waited.

After we'd been in the hospital for going on two hours, the two nurses sheepishly entered the room with faces bearing expressions of embarrassment and anger. My operation had been cancelled, they said. They'd only found out because they'd phoned around to see if they could get me through sooner, what with me being the only person there. Instead of an affirmation they were told that their list had been cancelled half an hour previously; a trivial fact that no one had bothered to inform them of. To their credit, they then frantically tried to see if there was any alternative, begged and pleaded with the people in charge, but to no avail.

Essentially, one anaesthetist in the whole hospital hadn't turned up and so mine had been pulled in to cover him. My operation was deemed to be 'elective' (although why I would choose to have for awkward wisdom teeth removed unless it was strictly necessary is beyond me), and therefore eminently cancellable. There was a possibility of having the operation done under a local anaesthetic with sedation, but as my teeth are in such bad positions the only option was a full-on general; not something that could be done without the proper anaesthetist. All we could do was trundle back to Fairford and hope that it won't take another five months to get a replacement slot.

I wasn't best pleased.

On the plus side, I got to help build the snowwoman. She is greater-than-human sized, in a kneeling position, and quite frankly terrifiying: I have never seen a snow creation look so menacing, we have truly created a monster. And she's still out there now, resplendent in the sunshine.

The lovely Luella.

SNOW!

Lo and behold, it is snowing outside. This is a very exciting development. We had a brief smattering of flakes here in Fairford a couple of weeks ago, but this is proper stuff, with big, thick flakes that are settling beautifully on every flat surface that they come into contact with. It's the kind of snow that can be easily moulded into snowmen, and that makes an immensely satisfying half-creak half-crunch when you step on it. It started a couple of hours ago and is still going strong, leaving me hopeful that it will emulate the snow of last February which was of a similar superb quality and so vast in quantity that we were able to construct not just a snowman but also a tower, a throne and an almost-igloo. Things are boding well: the sky is of that intense white that looks a bit fuzzy and seems to suck away all the light, and nothing appears to be melting. Hurrah!