About Carole Morin

Posts by Carole Morin

Dental Dread

false teeth samples

Just another sunny afternoon at Addicts’ Mansions, my bad fan Frostie sent me a poem about a prostitute he didn’t hire and Crazy K sent me a picture of a bum that wasn’t hers. I pure love change. I’m not one of those people who moans that Soho isn’t sleazy enough. I’m more likely to impulse buy a martini than a sex slave. But when did “does my bum look big in this” become “is my bum big enough”? Seems like yesterday Crazy K was on the tapeworm diet; now she wants me to take her to Brazil to buy a bum.

The manservant was telling me I’m too cool to go to Ronnie Scott’s. “Nobody goes there since the refurb.” Except the joint is always sold out. But that extra row of seats that have been there since before I was born spoils the fun for some weird kants. What I love about Ronnie’s apart from the espresso martinis is that I’m always the youngest one there. Maddie says I could pass for her grannie, but everyone else thinks I’m about 12 because I pure copy the Guru’s skin regimens (no acids, no sunscreen, no knife).

Yes, people laugh at my parasol but it only takes a minute to shout, “Go back to your suburb with your sun-damaged skin, stinky”. I add stinky to the end of my insults whether the person mings or not; just to give them something to think about on the long crowded train ride home.  If it’s a really big person laughing at me I shout abuse in Chinese. Then if it gets ugly I can pretend I was only ordering a takeaway.

So like I said, normal day, when suddenly I chipped a tooth!  Unfortunately this molar has a massive mercury filling from the olden days when Maddie sent us to bed with a bag of candy balls.  My grandfather owned the street we lived in, including a sweet shop and a pub.  If only Maddie had knocked us out with a double whisky.

My dad met a dentist in a pub who liked to strap children into the chair and “do his best to save their teeth”. My fear of being toothless was greater than my fear of The Butcher; but my brother vowed never to go to a dentist again. He extracted his rotten teeth with a piece of string tied to the doorknob; a trick Scottish children learned from Oor Wullie. Maddie insisted that he’d have to go back to the dentist sometime; but my brother killed himself instead. His Scottish childhood had marked him; as his suicide marks me.

There’s this myth that I don’t fear the dentist; because I don’t usually need treatment. I keep my David Bowie teeth control freak clean and feel smug when Marathon Woman praises my bones and gums and foams about the new tooth I have coming in.

Me and an ancient German woman are the only people who’ve grown new teeth at an advanced age. But maybe people are sneaking about with new teeth the whole time and just not telling their dentists.

Marathon Woman prides herself on pain-free treatment, and loves her drill as much as I love sniffing Hayo’u de-stress body oil. The sound of the drill transports me back to my last dental emergency; when I chipped a front tooth on vodka ice-cream just before a live television book reading.

I went to a dentist who looked like Tony Blair and lived in the basement of my building. Pincer locked the door so that “we wouldn’t be disturbed” then told me the room was soundproofed.

I tried to leave – it’s not the first time I’ve fled a medical appointment via a window – but Pincer pushed me back into the chair and forced a roll of rubber into my mouth. He did an excellent job on the tooth. The chip is completely invisible. But left me with chronic PTSD.

So I was scared. Very scared. Even though Marathon Woman has never strapped me into her reclining Bond villain chair and tried to choke me.

Mr Shabir prescribed NAC, which detoxes mercury from the body, and advised me with his sage like calm to “go for a walk in the sun”. I always do what Mr Shabir tells me so I went for a walk to the pub next to Marathon Woman’s lair and drank frozen vodka until I could face her tools.

I wanted to ‘Do A Guru’ and have a GA but Marathon Women isn’t allowed to knock me out. “Too many people were dying so it’s hospital controlled.” She did offer the laughing gas mask, but that reminds me of The Butcher’s gas mask which wasn’t funny.

Before I could say needle-phobic, Marathon Woman had inserted the local anesthetic into my perfect gums. I’d never make it as a junkie. A double espresso sends me over the edge. And I’ve already drunk enough vodka to kill the street.

I tensed up waiting for the sound of the drill, thinking about Virginia Woolf whose teeth were extracted because of her “nerves” but it didn’t cure her manic depression; just left her scared to smile.

“All done,” Marathon Woman said before I even had time for a Hail Mary. She doesn’t use her drill on mercury fillings. That causes toxic mercury vapour.  She cuts out the mercury then uses a filler that tastes like old chewing gum.

“It’s really quite exciting,” she said. Going to Ronnie Scott’s?  Going to Brazil with Crazy K to buy a new bum?

“A new tooth coming in at your age!”

A message from Crazy K, frantic about her shrinking rear, was waiting on my phone; signed off with “expect you’re sailing along as usual”.

“Sailing along”?!  For one thing, I don’t have a boat. I say no to woe because it bores me. I am a pure control freak. But I understand that I’m not really in control. Any minute an old filling can crack.

So I clean my teeth with Regenerate, using my silver Nano B toothbrush, then rinse with Power Smile mouthwash, slap SilverSol tooth gel on my gums and go to Ronnie Scott’s feeling smug about being the youngest one there.

Carole Morin’s books include Spying on Strange Men

Bad Words

Chalk words

Just another day at Addicts’ Mansions, the manservant and I taking turns at spraying each other with that legal high Magnesium Oil, having a wee whine about stuff we hate, when my dentist called to invite me “up the Amazon”.

“Just two gals having a laugh,” Max said. “We could take our teeth whitening kits!”

Regenerate is the only thing that’s allowed to clean my teeth and gals is one of many words that I can’t stand. I’d like to hurt everyone who shouts Enjoy! after selling me a cup of coffee. I want to kill men who use the l word. Euphemism. Three letters. Starts with l ends with o.

You start using words ironically, like gosh and crikey, then catch yourself doing it for real. I’m not a fan of gloom balloons but I can’t stand aggressively cheerful people either. Or singing washing machines. Or unisex names. Or beards.

Pogonophobiacs are always at the back of the queue when phobia sympathy is dished, but we suffer every time a beard moults. I was confronted with one in a library book today. I may have to give up my borrowing habit.

Books were forbidden in our house, Maddie called them “germ traps”, so I was dying to get into the library and read a book! I crawled under the shelf that separated the children’s section from the adult books and sat under a plant reading Wuthering Heights and Valley of the Dolls and a biog of Mary Queen of Scots that was bigger than me.

I wanted to take a stick to Jane Eyre; and drink a martini with Jordan “let the other drivers be careful” Baker in The Great Gatsby. I could never love anyone who doesn’t love my favourite book Two Serious Ladies, a gift from Dangerous on our honeymoon; another word I can’t stand.

A good book leaves blank space for the reader’s imagination to interact with the words on the page. Reality is over-rated.

Crazy K de-stresses by stuffing her face with lettuce, a natural opiate; but when I’m up tae high doh I prefer escaping into the zero calorie worlds of fiction. Though I am pure gutted that I can’t try SOS Pearl Drops because valerian makes me aggressive. Dangerous had to stop me hurting a pharmacist who gave me melatonin with added valerian. That chemist fell well short of Mr Shabir’s standards; though maybe the iron golf club was overkill.

Reading ruins you, really ruins you said Mao Zedong who stayed in bed all day reading while his followers smashed up the Forbidden City. Traditional Chinese beds have an oven under them so the Chairman was nice and toasty while re-reading Confucius.

He may have launched ten billion fashion disasters with that Mao suit, but he earned his place in Chinese heaven with his literacy revolution; teaching China how to read by introducing pinyin (a system which makes Chinese characters more accessible to the adult learner).

Knowledge is power but despite being a bossy boots Mao shared the power of words with the illiterate masses. When he heard the word culture the wee megalomaniac may have reached for his chopsticks and stuffed his face with more Hunan chow, but he democratically chose Mandarin as the official language even though he didn’t speak it properly; his speeches had to be subtitled.

But I’m not a dictator so when I stay in bed with Machiavelli my short attention span manservant disturbs me every 30 seconds with annoying questions.

“Are men allowed to use Feminine Happy Oil?” Yes if you want me to hurt you; steal some of mine.

“Richard 3rd is unfriending you again.” Richard 3rd is my bitter and twisted friend who lies about her height.

When a paranoid loon diagnoses you bipolar because you don’t want to listen to another moan on the phone, it’s time to hit the block button and get back to your book.  Books don’t insult you or suffer from skin envy. If they bore you, just close it and open a new one.

So I lost a friend. A short friend. One who uses the p word – six letters begins with p and ends with r. But I gained an afternoon with Chroma, Derek Jarman’s poetic meditation on colour written while he was dying in the grey lunar landscape of Dungeness.

It pure cheers me up when I see a tramp reading. Chicken Man, who lives in my street, is working his way through Harry Potter though I can’t resist giving him a copy of Songs of Innocence and Experience because he sits on a Soho step near Blake’s birthplace.

I’m using tramp in the English sense but I look over the shoulders of sluts to see what they are reading too.

Reading is so unfashionable it’s almost cool. Print books are the new vinyl, exotic collectors’ items to be displayed and sniffed. Words and their multiple meanings have seduced me since I learned to read.

First you learn to read and then you learn to write, joining the dots to form words on the page in your head. Everyone has a book in them and sometimes it’s best left there along with your liver and kidneys.

I’m not a book snob. I read online too and haven’t strained my eyes since taking Eyebright as recommended by Mr Shabir; and copied Empress Jo’s computer specs.

IRL I don’t need specs, apart from my vintage YSL shades, but have had no headaches since getting my Miss Moneypenny jobbies for screen glare. OMG I’ve been living in London so long I’ve started using jobbie in the English sense! In Scottish it means shite.

Ok, I’m weird. I can hear you! Just remember. One person’s weird is another person’s special.

Carole Morin’s books include Spying on Strange Men and Dead Glamorous

Psychic Sisters

magnifying glass over heart

Everybody needs a witch. Because a detox is not just for your liver and gut. A spiritual spring clean decongests your home the way Electrogel Cleanser cleans the pores.

Saturn is in my house of destiny, so I booked a session with my witch and asked if the Guru is going to sack me as frequently threatened. Witchy ordered me to pick a tarot card but wouldn’t let me see it.

Read More…

Daddy

glass with ice

My dad died today. Of course he didn’t die today; he died on this date three years ago. Deaths are easier to remember than birthdays. Or they were before Facebook gave everybody a prompt.

Daddy gave up dialysis to spend more time in the pub because he didn’t want to spend what turned out to be the last year of his life with “a bunch of boring old guys in an ambulance”.

He had a list in his wallet of all the people who have died doing a detox and sang a Scottish version of Amy Winehouse’s Rehab. “The cheese tried to make me go to rehab but I said naw naw naw.”

When the doctor told him he had two weeks to live he rolled his eyes and said, “Two weeks! In this place! Can’t you give me a jag?”

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Big Head

things-jan-18-3

It started with my tubercular toe. But let’s not start at the very beginning; often a bad place to start. This week it started with the fat lady who fell on top of me; somewhere between sexual assault and attempted murder. It could have happened to anyone; but it happened to me. The fat lady landed on the cracked toenail that had already been run over by a PR who went all passive-aggressive with the wheels of my suitcase after offering to push it for me.

No sooner had foot queen at Margaret Dabbs glued my big toe back together than the fat lady danced on it.  I put out my hand to stop her having a second jig and sprained my wrist. Sane Shabir sent me Bromelain for soft tissue injury which solved that problem. Then I woke up with a spot. More like a planet than a spot. Next time you use a Spacemask, instead of going to Mars you could just pay a visit to the gigantic plook on my face. I could build homes on it and solve the international refugee crisis. Read More…

Creepy Claus

cm-dec-2017

Dangerous and I don’t do Christmas. “Is that allowed?!” Crazy K screamed, even more shocked than the time she caught me dancing in my pants to Abba. You know that thing when people have Mad stuck in front of their name – Mad Gill springs to mind – but they are frighteningly sane? Well, Crazy K is really crazy. Top of her xmas wish list is a trip to the loony bin where the temptation to over-eat is curtailed by a strait-jacket.

My idea of a great diet is a pack of Biocol Labs Something for a Detox Week; hers is being chained to a pole beside a chamberpot. The Priory is for pussies; she wants a Nurse Ratched nuthouse. Last xmas Crazy K gave us His and Hers monogrammed colonic hoses (“unused”), when we would have preferred a Complete Body Cleanse Kit or a cup of Gentian Bitters. Dangerous has been phobic about opening unsolicited gifts since Mad Jen sent him a set of “spy soaps” she made out of hamster jobbie. Read More…