A visit to the Dentist

A few days ago I went to the dentist. I had to. I had no choice at all. I was in pain. Actually, that’s wrong - I was in agony. The top right hand molar, second from the end was giving me so much pain that I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Eating was a nightmare. I was also grumpy, though trying not to be. I was living on pain killers. I had so many pain killers that my kidneys went into overtime mode. I kept waking up in the middle of the night absolutely busting for a pee. After so many pees, I must have been getting dehydrated as my urine changed in colour to a not-quite-right orangeade .

Now the particular tooth in question was one I could live without. After all, I still had my upper right end molar, and my lower right end molar was still intact, so chewing and grinding or even gnashing would still be within my dental capabilities. Also, I just knew that this would be no simple filling job, but a root canal job. Root canal jobs, as we all know mean only two things. The first is no immediate relief from the pain. The second is several trips back to the dentist and a sudden emptying of the bank account. There was only one thing for it. No beating about the bush. No messing. No hesitation. It had to come out.

After the obligatory questions such as “are you sure you want me to take it out”, and “are you really sure you want it out”, and “you could have root canal treatment and keep the tooth” - the dentist finally conceded that in the “to extract or not to extract” department, I was the boss.

I settled back into the chair, relaxing in its warm embrace. The dentist’s mouth lamp stared at me like some bug eyed creature from a science fiction movie.

The dentist decided to take an x-ray before beginning the extraction. He showed me the resulting image and there it was - two long roots projecting deep into the gum.

I felt a deep sense of joy as the needle penetrated my gum - several times. It didn’t matter that it hurt. It didn’t matter that my gums swelled up with the sheer volume of the anaesthetic which was being pumped in. What mattered was that this bloody tooth which was causing me so much agony was about to meet its maker - but not without a fight, as I was about to find out!

After the standard wait of about five minutes for my mouth to “numb up”, the stage was finally set for the dentist to pick up the extraction forceps and pull the critter out.

Now at this point I should say that my expectation was that this would be a very quick affair and that I should be out the door after a total of about 15 minutes. My appointment was for 9 ‘o clock and I had a work planning meeting to attend which started at 10’ o clock. No problem.

The dentist grabbed my tooth and began to yank it about from side to side, and front to back to compress the bone in which the tooth was set and create an enlarged cavity thus loosening the tooth for the final pull of extraction. The “final pull of extraction” began. He pulled. He yanked. He pulled again. He pulled hard. He pulled really hard. I pulled back in a vain effort to assist. The first attempt a failure he picked up a levering implement and poked it down the cavity beside the tooth and began to lever away. Back to the forceps, he resumed the pulling and yanking once again.

At around this point, the realization set in with me that this was one tooth which was not going to budge. Although the anaesthetic worked well, I could still detect pressure and the feeling I was getting was that the roots of the tooth were firmly welded into the bone. It felt as if it was necessary for my whole bottom jaw to be pulled out if the tooth was going to be budged. In fact, all sorts of gory visions started to flood my mind, and it was clear that as extractions went, I was in for the long haul - or should I say pull. The dentist, whilst doing a very good job of keeping cool and concealing any emotions of panic, kept assuring me that everything was okay, and asking if I was alright. Of course I was all right, in a near death experience sort of way.

Just to reassure me further and put me more at ease he told me that his next move was to drill vertically through the tooth to cut it in half and take it out one root at a time. He then proceeded to drill. And drill. And drill. At this point I realised the anaesthetic was starting to wear off - I had been in the chair for three days now - and suddenly I felt the drill searing into the nerve. My hand shot up and I began to make a combination of bovine lowing and velociraptor screeching noises. Thankfully, he stopped the drilling and injected yet more anaesthetic into my already swollen gum which was gradually performing an imitation of the Hindenburg airship and taking up most of the remaining space in my mouth.

After a further 5 minutes of “numbing up” time, the yanking was resumed - to no avail. It was now time to bring in the heavy artillery.

The door opened and in walked the receptionist. I could tell the situation was getting serious. She positioned herself behind me and put both hands around my head to steady me for the final “push”- well, pull really. He pulled. Nothing happened. He pulled harder. Nothing happened. He pulled astonishingly hard. Something snapped and the vibration rattled through my skull. Part of the tooth had come away, but both the roots were still firmly implanted. He switched to instruments with hooks and levers and much pulling, pushing and levering ensued. I could taste blood.

Suddenly, I felt a root come out with a sudden snap. “Yes”! the dental nurse cried out with an air of triumph. The root was placed into the tray. The dentist resumed with more pulling, pushing and levering. I could feel an increase of blood in my mouth and the whole of the right side of my face was starting to throb. There was a further snapping sound as more tooth broke away.

At this point the dentist decided enough was enough. I could have told him that myself but for the mouth full of blood. I had a good rinse and was given a gauze pad to bite on and a bill for £65. I was told the other root was still in my jaw and I should leave it a couple of weeks before deciding whether to come back again. I was advised that if I did, it might be a hospital job. I was starting to feel as if I belonged in hospital anyway.

I dragged myself out to the reception where a girl was sat in the waiting area awaiting her appointment. She went white on seeing me as I seemed unable to stop saliva mixed with blood dribbling from my mouth and dropping to the floor. Her mother cooed reassurance into her ear. I dribbled more gore onto the floor. “Don’t worry about that” said the receptionist, and proceeded to clean up my mess. I paid my bill. The receptionist advised me not to go to work, but to go to bed instead. I didn’t argue and complied in full.

Change and feeling

I feel the urge to write, though I'm not sure what. I feel as if my life is taking a radical change in direction, and things will never be the same again. There are so many things I want to do with my life, and I am more and more conscious of how rapidly life is passing me by. My creative instincts are taking over, and I feel the need to create much because it is a part of what makes us human.

I have a great need of beauty. music, countryside, landscape. That's probably why I love photography so much. Its a chance to capture beauty, and preserve it to ponder over later, and for future generations. The power of music and wonderful images together can stir the soul, inspire, and even change lives. I feel my life being changed..irrevocably. I am changing, growing older, moving on, dying, transforming, loving........and feeling sadness.

I guess I'm feeling somewhat doleful, or even maudlin. I have a warm glow of anticipation, and yet a sadness that the things and people I love in life are changing and disappearing. Its important to hang onto the things and people who you love. Its important to use your creative talents to good effect,. Its important to be truthful and keep a sense of proportion and humour. Its also important to realise that no matter how bad life might seem at the moment, it will change - but not always for the better. Even so, I cope.

A Royal Visit

This morning when I awoke, I wished my wife a happy birthday, and before she could get out of bed I lavished lots of really nice presents on her. I don’t do this sort of thing every morning, only on those which happen to be her birthday, otherwise she’d get very confused – you understand.

After I had walked the dog and my wife had spring cleaned the whole house, practiced her Kung Fu and said goodbye to the milkman, we jumped into the car and set off to Sandringham House to see Liz and Phil. We arrived to find that Liz and Phil must have got wind of our surprise visit, and decided to surprise us themselves by not being there!

I have driven through, around and by Sandringham many times in the past, but never actually stopped to get out and see how the other side live. As my wife and I are manic photographers and we had both taken the day off work to have a birthday day out, Sandringham seemed an obvious choice, as well as a place where people of our refined breeding and high standing in society would feel naturally at home.

After parking the car – a Kia Carens – (I believe the Queen is thinking of getting one herself soon), the first port of call was the bog. My wife reported to the throne room, while I made my way to the House of Lords – where all the big knobs hang out. Feeling suitably relieved and flushed, we made a bee line to the hise ………….errrr………I mean the house. Before entering in, we amused ourselves frolicking in the gardens and wondering at the fat golden statue of the Buddha, and seeing how many ways we could photograph Old Father Time – his statue, that is.

The SS Guard at the entrance to the house ordered us to put our cameras away, or at least switch them off, as well as our mobile phones. He assured us that if we didn’t we would not be shot, but did not tell us what fate would really befall us if we disobeyed.

The house was full, as you would expect, of very old and highly ornate furniture. It was clear the Queen doesn’t go to Ikea. As well as all the other paraphernalia, there were lots of weapons – guns, swords, spears, knives etc. It was apparent that the house had a dark side apart from making money from the visiting peasants, and that was killing poor, unsuspecting animals. One of the attendants assured me that the Royals would be up before Christmas to bag a few more. Great fun for them, though their prey might see it differently.

I took a close look, donning my reading glasses, at a shell from the Boer War which had been adapted and transformed into a clock, which stood pointing proudly to the ceiling. The attendant leaned over to me and said that it was actually an unexploded shell, and implied it could still explode. I suggested it was just biding its time, awaiting the right moment…………

Being a bit of a bookworm, I paid particular interest to the very sumptuous ancient books adorning the shelves of the glass fronted book cabinets. There were amongst others, history books, political books, and books of speeches by people now made obscure by the mists of antiquity.

“I wonder if they ever open any of the books and actually read them”, an old man asked rhetorically. I commented to my wife that maybe the Queen was a member of the “Folio Society” – but maybe not.

Leaving the house behind, we continued our wonderings around the grounds, taking in the museum while we were at it.

I have got to say that the gardens are absolutely beautiful, amongst the most lovely gardens I have ever visited anywhere in the world. It was a real pleasure walking by the lake and smelling the aromas from all the flowers which were everywhere.

We did laugh at one point – oh how we laughed – when we came across an old dear having a conversation on her mobile phone. She was speaking very loudly, so we couldn’t miss her. What made us titter was just how sickeningly posh she was verbeaging across the network. “Yes” was replaced by “yaah” – she wasn’t German. Maybe she was affected by where she was. Maybe that once she got outside of the wire, she would revert to a more “Gore blimey guvner” sort of way……or maybe not.

We concluded our exploration of the estate in visiting the Church – you know, the one the Royals are always seen on the telly walking into on Christmas Day. It’s called the Church of St Mary Magdalene. To look at from the outside it looks like a perfectly ordinary Parish Church. However, once you step inside you are confronted by one of the most beautiful and ornate alters I have seen in such a church. Clearly, the Royal connection has benefitted it well.

It cost us £9 each to visit the Royal Estate, and in my opinion it was worth every penny.
We polished off what had been a perfect day with a large soft ice cream cornet each, and a plate of fish and chips at a restaurant in Hunstanton. The sun shone all day, and set - surrounded by a pink horizon.

Ten Ton Run

A long time ago on an air base far far away…………………

I was working as an RAF Photographer. By “photographer” I mean a REAL photographer – not an Air Photographer. Air Photographers (Air Photographic Operators and Photographic Processing Analysts) didn’t take photographs, and they didn’t fly either. Ground Photographers (“Photo-Gs” – of which I was one) did both. Now there’s an irony!

The air base was RAF Tengah on the beautiful island of Singapore. There were a number of flying squadrons on the base. The only one worth talking about as far as I am concerned is 74 “Tiger” Squadron. The reason for my enthusiasm is that the Squadron flew Lightnings, and Lightnings, my friend, are the most exciting arse-kicking aircraft the RAF has ever flown. It was a high speed screaming interceptor. Carrying Red Top missiles, it could launch very rapidly, accelerate like a bat out of hell, gaining altitude with its tail in reheat like some space bound rocket, shoot the enemy plane out of the sky and land before you had the chance to fry an egg! Ok, I know – I’m exaggerating – forget the egg frying; I really meant make beans on toast.

Another reason for my enthusiasm was that I was given a flight in a Lightning.

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When I first arrived at Tengah, I was billeted in a barrack block close to the end (or was it the beginning?) of the runway. Very often, the Squadron would fly early morning sorties. Early in this case meaning before I considered it time to get out of bed. The aircraft would position themselves on the apron at the end (or was it the beginning?) of the runway and run-up their engines. The sound was deafening. The whole block would shake and vibrate and I would descend under the bed cloths with my fingers in my ears. Finally, they would take the brakes off, and with an even more deafening roar, storm up into the sky. Wonderful.

During my tour of duty, I was called upon to take many photographs for the Squadron, mainly for public relations purposes, while others were taken for engineering maintenance use. One task I was called upon to undertake was to photograph the wreckage and aftermath of a Lightning crash within minutes of the event. This was very sad and traumatic indeed. The pilot, who was a family man, ejected too late and was tragically killed as a result. Even so, he was a hero because he steered the aircraft away from the most populated area to spare the lives of those below. In doing so, he lost his own.

Over time, I built up a special relationship with the Squadron, and any request or opportunity to take photographs for the Squadron I treated with relish. It appeared that the feeling was mutual, as the Squadron decided to treat me to a flight in the “T-Bird” Lightning. (T = trainer, thus it had two seats). This was not to be just any old flight, but a “ten-ton” run (i.e. flying at or above 1000 mph).

I duly showed up first thing in the morning for my pre-flight training and briefing. This was not too arduous as I was assured by the pilot that he would not be pulling too many “Gs.” Even so, I did get a little edgy because he kept talking about WHEN we eject. I questioned him on this and he replied that they always take it that they might have to eject at any time, so it was the best attitude of mind to adopt for such an eventuality. Feeling a little comforted, though not entirely, I was finally kitted up and found myself walking out to the aircraft looking for all the world like something out of “Top Gun.”

I have flown many times in my life, but I have never experienced the sheer acceleration of take-off as I did in the Lightning. It was awesome, and we weren’t even in reheat. The aircraft soared into the sky as I watched the airfield rapidly recede with the roar of the engine behind me. The pilot informed me once we were over Johor Bahru that we were going to climb to operating altitude. We went to reheat. I felt a sudden kick of acceleration while the pilot sat the plane on its tail and we roared at a steep angle to 36,000 feet. Because the cockpit canopy was clear over my head as well as to the forward and sides, I could see the sky darkening as we rapidly climbed into the heavens. I had always wanted to go into space, and unless I can buy a ticket from Mr Branson, this was most likely the closest I will ever get to the experience. We made our way up the west coast of Malaya (as was) and then the pilot gently turned the aircraft around to face south. We began our “ten ton run.”

The pilot radioed the air controllers that we were coming in “fast” – an understatement. I watched the Mach Meter, the instrument which told us how fast we were going in relation to the speed of sound. We went through Mach-1 breaking the sound barrier. The aircraft seemed to give the slightest of shudders – (or was it me shuddering with excitement?) – and all was calm. It was eerily quiet, with very little sensation of speed. The Mach Meter settled on a final speed of Mach 1.58 – that’ll do me Brian!

The pilot then offered me control of the aircraft. This was necessary if I was to qualify for membership of the Ten Ton Club – you had to actually be flying the plane yourself. I carefully grabbed the joystick with my feet gently resting on the rudder pedals. “You have control” said the pilot.

“I have control” I confirmed.

For the next couple of minutes or so I endeavoured to keep the plane straight and level. At this speed, you didn’t want to make any sudden manoeuvres – “fly by wire” was still some way in the future. Presently, the pilot, probably not wanting to push his luck any further, resumed control of the aircraft.

“I have control” he said.

“You have control”, I confirmed, letting go of the joystick.

He explained to me that we would have to lose speed quickly. To achieve this, he took the plane into an “upwards dive”, levelling out at 42,000 feet – nearly in orbit! He then made a series of manoeuvres and finally lined us up with the runway beginning a steep decent towards Tengah.

“You are slightly high on your glide path, adjust our rate of descent.” I heard over the radio. I assumed this was the air controllers out on the hill at Bukit Gombak talking us down. As the airfield loomed larger, the pilot decided to push his luck again, and invited me to pull the black and yellow striped handle to release the drag-chute. This was a special parachute which deployed from the back of the plane once you had touched down to assist in getting the aircraft’s speed down to the point where it could be safely taxied back to the dispersal.

“Whatever you do – DON’T pull it until I say” he instructed. Even with my limited knowledge of aviation skills, the dangers were not lost on me if I should pull it before we had actually touched down!

It has been said that landing a Lightning is more a controlled crash than a normal landing. The end of the runway came up to meet us at frightening speed, and then I was aware of the sudden jolt and screech of tyres on tarmac as we made contact with terra firma.

“NOW!” came the instruction through my head set. I snapped the handle back obediently, and breathed a sigh of relief as I felt the additional negative acceleration induced by the drag-chute.

Some years later, the flight now a distant memory, I photographed a Conversion course group for Phantom pilots who were converting to flying the Tornado.

After the shoot, as I started to walk away, a voice called out to me. I swung around, and there was the pilot who took me up all those years ago. It was wonderful to meet him again, and chat over happy times. In Singapore, he was a young Flying Officer. He was now a Squadron leader.

The Lightning was a wonderful aircraft. I mourn its’ passing.

Whoops!!!

Many years ago when I was a young airman in Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force, I found myself serving as a photographer at RAF Tengah in Singapore.

One day we had a visit from an Air Marshal. An Air Marshal is an officer of “Air Rank” You can always tell officers of Air Rank because they have the word “Air” at the start of their rank title, a slight give away. In addition, they have lots of “scrambled egg” on the peaks of their hats. They also get paid a hell of a lot more money than most people – consequently they tend to smile a lot, especially when visiting the bank. On this particular occasion I was tasked to take publicity photographs of one such esteemed guest.

At the time, I used a Rolleiflex T twin lens reflex camera. Sometimes I would use my own camera which was a Mamiyaflex C3. The RAF hadn’t discovered colour photography at the time, so my camera was loaded with Kodak Tri-X Pan black and white film. The great thing about this film was that it didn’t matter how badly you cocked up on the exposure, you always seemed to get a good print come what may.

My modus operandi for photographing such visits was to follow the visitor and his entourage fairly closely behind with my camera and flash (Mecablitz 502) raised close to my eye with my finger twitching lightly on the button ready to fire off a shot the moment anything which looked remotely like a half decent picture presented itself in the viewfinder. If I saw they were heading into a certain room I might leap ahead and get a “head on” as they came in the door. This was also a good position to be in if the visitor was glad-handing the incumbent peasant workers, because the alternative was a wonderful photograph of people’s backs. Such shots might be useful today for the highly pretentious “art-house” (fart-house) fine art market, but not good enough for the “Tengah Times” or the RAF News.

The visiting group walked into a hanger. I seem to remember it was the hanger of 74 “Tiger” Squadron, which flew Lightnings, the most fantastic aircraft ever. I am a little biased towards Lightnings because I had a flight in one – but that’s another story. Anyway, I was not terribly familiar with the various rooms hugging the walls of the hanger, so I followed on, taking photographs until I had fired off the twelfth shot on the roll, which meant it was time to pause, and change the film. Keeping an eye on the visiting group and their escorting officers, I noticed they disappeared into a side-room just across the hanger. Hurrying to catch up, I made my way to the doorway with my camera up to my eye ready to take the next picture. I entered the room. In from of me I was confronted by the sight of the Air Marshal et al, relieving themselves at the urinal!

“I don’t think we’ll bother with any photographs in here, photographer” said the Air Marshal somewhat startled.

Maybe he thought I was taking the piss. Even so, I was certainly not pulling his plonker!

Photo Tips - Getting in Close

Before writing this article, I thought I would “Google” the word “Macro” to see what definitions came up. As well as being a small “linking program” for use in developing computer applications (like “Visual Basic” usage in building “Access” databases), it also has a meaning when applied to photography. The most straight forward definition I found was:

“The ability of a lens to focus just inches away from an object or subject so as to produce big close-ups, sometimes even larger-than-life size.”

When I did my photography training, I was taught that in order for an image to be formed on the film the same size as the original subject, the lens has to be racked out to a distance of twice its focal length from the film plane. Provided the subject was also at the same distance in front of the lens, then the subject would be in focus. To get in even closer, then the lens has to be racked out even further. This is actually a very basic description of the mechanism behind macro photography, and if I were to be really pedantic I would also have to take into account the position of the optical centre of the lens, and where exposure is concerned, the Inverse Square Law! But enough of all this technical stuff lest you think I am just trying to impress you with the amazing depth of my knowledge.

Most good cameras these days will have a macro function, so you don’t have to worry about the technicalities touched on above. Even so, you do have to be a little more careful than when taking normal snapshots if you are going to get a good result. If you examine your camera (or even read the manual – but let’s not get carried away), you should find a switch on the barrel of the lens (usually on SLRs), or an icon on the back of the camera (a side on representation of a flower on my Canon) which when activated, brings into play the macro function. Assuming you have selected the macro mode for your particular type of camera, you need to carefully get in close to the subject. I say “carefully” because there are limits, as with everything, within which you will get a sharp result in the macro mode, and you may need to experiment a bit to see what works best. Also, when you are up very close to your subject, if you are shooting hand-held, then the smallest movement of the camera will be magnified, increasing the likelihood of getting movement blur on the photograph. If you must shoot hand held, then make sure you use a fast shutter speed. This will probably mean opening up a couple of stops on the aperture or setting the sensitivity to a higher ISO. Of course, you can only set the ISO if you are shooting digital. If you still use film, then you may need to load a 400 ISO film. Ideally, to be sure of avoiding camera shake, use a tripod.

Both the photographs featured were shot hand held. The shot of the snail was taken in rather subdued light in my front garden, and the insects on the flower shot was taken in very bright lighting conditions while on holiday in Greece, earlier this year. In neither case was I particularly looking to take a macro shot, the opportunities just presented themselves.

The great thing about macro, is that it enables you to view things in much finer detail, to enter an unfamiliar world where rich pickings may be found for the enquiring mind. Don’t just take my word for it, try it for yourself.

Arrogant Christians

This morning I awoke to my alarm going off. I hate alarms – especially shrill ones. It is therefore fortunate that my alarm is not shrill, but rather dulcet. I don’t need a shrill alarm because I am a fairly light sleeper, so it doesn’t take a lot to awaken me.

When I wake up on Sunday mornings, I like to lie in bed for about twenty minutes before getting up and facing the world. Anything longer and I start to feel that my life is being wasted. It’s an odd thing, but it really is the case that the older you get, the quicker time seems to pass you by. It was explained to me once that the reason for this perception is that the longer you have lived, then the shorter any period of time you are currently experiencing is in relation to the total of the time elapsed in your life to that point. I am sure this is as clear as horse muck, but if you think about it I am sure you will get the picture.

Anyway, as I lay in my bed I switched the radio on (digital – not your old fashioned namby pamby analogue) and found myself listening to an interview of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s wife for the obligatory newsy religious affairs programs so beloved of the BBC on Sunday mornings. What really struck me about the woman was just how incredibly annoying she was. She sounded extremely posh, which I suppose is no sin, but she came across – to me at least – as really arrogant. If I had been the interviewer I think I would have been extremely tempted to ask her if she was actually a Christian, as her husband supposedly is.

I hate arrogance, especially when it proceeds from the mouths of people who should know better. When I was in the Royal Air Force, I used to be a keen Christian. Any regular (or even not so regular) readers of my blog will know that I am now a very keen atheist, so I have changed quite radically over the years. I attended regular Bible studies and on occasions even led them. Our little fellowship comprised of service people and civilians of all ranks and socio economic categories. We were proud of the fact that, in line with New Testament teaching, there were no class barriers between us. Even so, you always get one who has to be different from everyone else who should know better. The one of which I speak in this context was an army chaplain. There were two chaplains shepherding the flock of our Church, one air force, and the other army.

My job throughout my time in the RAF was a photographer. At this time, I was stationed at RAF Rheindahlen in Germany as a NATO public information photographer. I was tasked to photograph a “National Reception” at the Officers’’ Mess where the local, and not so local great and good were invited to shake hands with the base big cheeses, quaff the wines, scoff the cheese and generally have a jolly good time. I was stood, doing my thing taking my usual artfully crafted photographs of the esteemed guests as they shook hands with this General, or that Air Marshal. I was tapped upon the shoulder by a lady from the fellowship. She was married to a Flight Lieutenant. She said how pleased she was to see me and, it being a quiet moment in the proceedings, we engaged in conversation. Suddenly, the Army Chaplain appeared on the scene, butting in on our conversation.

“Why are you talking to the Corporal” said the chaplain. Incredulous, my friend replied, “This is Steve, you know him – he’s part of our fellowship”.
“Well you know you should be talking to the guests and not to the Other Ranks" (a term I hate). Gobsmacked, my friend replied, “Really Chaplain, what kind of a Christian are you?”
Pointing at his rank badge on his uniform – “A Colonel Christian” he replied, and then stomped off into the melee.

I wonder what rank Jesus was?