My lower lip is wobbling about in a most alarming manner, reminiscent of Rowan Atkinson at his rubber-faced best. This is because my new dentist has been stabbing me in the face with a very large syringe, ostensibly for the purpose of administering an anaesthetic. I have always secretly suspected that dentists borrow most of their equipment from the local S&M boutique, but in this particular case I would guess that the syringe needle was nicked from the bull elephant enclosure at some nearby zoo, given its terrifying size and apparent ability to penetrate bone. The man is clearly capable, although his manner is brusque at best - he left a mere 30 seconds between the insertion of the Needle of Doom and turning on the drill (which he affectionately calls "The Pulveriser"), with the nonchalant instruction, "Hold up your left hand if this hurts, okay mate?" Well, actually, no, not okay mate, because believe me, if the anaesthetic hasn't kicked in properly by the time you insert your whirring implements of agony into my mouth, you will first be instantly deafened in one ear by my tortured screaming, before my left fist will be giving you some impromptu dental work. Luckily, the enormous amount of elephant tranquilliser in the syringe had done its work, and I didn't feel a thing, beyond a strange, fleeting desire to shag the large grey leather sofa in the waiting room afterwards. I now have a new, shiny filling to show for my troubles, plus a banging headache, and can't eat anything for four hours. Damn, I was really looking forward to a pint of Ribena and a big bag of sweets.

I reckon we should all have our teeth removed shortly after puberty and replaced with durable ceramic teeth, so we'd never have to worry about tooth decay again. Also, I'm sure there'd be a market for customised teeth - you know, serrated teeth, spiky teeth, novelty revolving teeth, teeth with "I LUV MY MUM" tattooed on them, teeth in the shape of your pet dog, teeth with tiny LEDs built in so you can find your keys in the dark, teeth with tiny MP3 players built in so you could literally carry a tune in your head, electric teeth with drill heads so you could eat concrete, fluorescent teeth for fundamentalist ministers and used car salesmen - that sort of thing. I would love to start up a business along these lines, but I am essentially a pacifist (except for really wanting to cause grievous bodily harm to George W. Bush, the guy who invented the Crazy Frog, all fundamentalists and most used car salesmen. So, yeah, essentially a pacifist) and I wouldn't be able to square my code of ethics with all the pain and suffering I would cause. [sigh] Back to the part-time astronaut job it is, then, I suppose...

Have recently developed an inexplicable addiction to salami. Well, to be honest I've always liked the stuff, but at the moment I just can't seem to get enough of it. The other day in the supermarket I found myself in Cured Meats, staring fixedly at the fridge shelves, salivating uncontrollably, whilst my two children tugged with increasing urgency at my trouser legs. I ended up buying three different varieties, upon which I have subsequently been snacking voraciously, with nary a slice of Emmenthal or a crusty baguette for an accompaniment.

I suspect I am pregnant.

Incidentally, the word "baloney" is apparently derived either from mortadella di Bologna (an Italian fine salami) or from "polony" (referring to a similar although rather more garlicky Polish sausage). Either way, I would probably try some if I saw it in a shop. At this rate I may have to allocate myself a monthly salami budget.