Not since my third ever post has Data gone quite as fucking all out mental, Rain Man getting on a non-Qantas plane, bat-shit crazy as she did yesterday.
If you are clueless as to who Data and indeed Riker might be, have a quick read of that post. It's short, honest.
You back? How was that? I'm fucking great, amn't I? No wonder I'm up for Best Blog. Along with every other cunt in the universe.
Let me be clear. On this occasion, Data had not recently absorbed her own bodyweight in sugar. She slept just fine the night before. I hadn't been dissing Dora or bashing Barney. Her mood was middling to fair. Can't say better than that.
Riker's dental hygienist appointment started, shockingly, on time. Common Law had been informed of this appointment over the telephone, it was to be free, and to take place in the North Strand Health Centre which I had assumed was going to be reminiscent of Danny's flat in Trainspotting but turned out to be clean and friendly and apparently junkie free. Riker jumped in the chair and opened wide.
Data sat on my lap, and briefly paid attention to the story I had brought along to distract from any drilling plans she might have been formulating. As it was, she couldn't take her eyes away from the procedure proceeding in front of her.
To be honest, I thought she was fucking terrified. The look on her face certainly appeared to be one of, at minimum, trepidation. I kept banging out the Barbie and her wheelchair bound friend play basketball book, safe in the knowledge that, on this occasion at least, I wouldn't have to force her into the chair and hold her down while she attempted to scratch out the eyes of both the hygienist and her lovely assistant.
So Riker is finished. Bottom teeth sealed, all polished up, sparkle, sparkle. She gets out of the chair, I gather up the travelling with children detritus, hand out the thank yous and start to move out of the room.
It's a slow burner this one.
'Is my go?'
'Pardon, Data?' We're just about out the door.
Rising pitch: 'Is my go?'
I do my fatherly chuckle, I grin at the lovely assistant. 'No, sweetie, it was just for Riker today.'
That was the end of the slow burning. The fuse has fizzed to the end. Fucking kaboom.
Tears are streaming, yes. This is genuine grief, folks, real anguish. But the noise. Oh my good fucking Christ, the noise. Everyone in the building is now making the not unreasonable assumption that some drunken HSE executive has decided that in order to finance his bonus, root canal work on children will now be done without anaesthetic.
We're all the way back to the waiting room, where we find ourselves in front of millions of parents and children from Riker's school, all scheduled for the same day, all wondering why I have chosen a public place in which to beat up my youngest child.
Lovely assistant has chased us down.
'Does she want to sit in the chair?'
Yes, lovely assistant, she sure does.
And so we go back, Data gets to sit in the chair, wear the shades and even have her teeth polished.
'She's very good,' says the High Genie. 'What age is she?'
'Oh, my three year old would never sit still like this for me.'
'Oh yeah, she's a fucking angel. You can tell from the way that the concept of her sister getting anything at all that she doesn't get causes her to have a complete emotional breakdown.'
I didn't say that.
Later we waltzed to 'Nothing Compares 2 U', because it was on and because we like to waltz, me and Data. With feeling I sang to her, 'I know that living with you baby is sometimes hard..'
At least she's stopped crapping in her pants.
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