You wouldn't know from the photo but when I was at school I was sometimes called "Ginger". Red hair, many Scottish freckles, pale skin, tendency to burn to a crisp in the sun rather than tan gorgeously.
It turns out ... according to real actual research ... that red-haired humans (and mice for fuck's sake) have a higher threshold for pain and need substantially greater amounts of anesthesia than non-red-haired humans (or mice).
So, after over an hour in a dentist's chair this morning and enough anesthesia to fell a horse the dentist decided to abandon the procedure and summon Spike Deane because my old man's heart was ... erratic may be the word ... and we were mildly interested in whether or not I was on the verge of an attack of quadriplegic autonomic dysreflexia which can kill me in a nanosecond.
Two hours later, I'm back home ... resting in the car cos discretion is the better part of valour allegedly ... while my heart rate fluctuates like a Western Isles midgie on crack cocaine. I know that because I treated myself to a Samsung Galaxy 6 Classic watch, purchased with 110,000 QANTAS frequent flyer points, so I've now got more computing power on my wrist -- that I don't know how to use properly -- than the Apollo 11 moon landing.
If I die right now I'm going to come back and haunt that specialist I saw and tell him ... not in any judgemental or condemnatory way, of course ... "I told you so, ya fucking eejit!" Except I'm too Scottish and stubborn to die on anyone's terms but my own.
Ginger-heided meece ... who knew?
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