I write, driven to distraction, in every sense, by recent dental work. I’ve had a porcelain veneer fitted to one of my upper front teeth, to bring it into alignment with the others. It rather feels someone’s rammed a piece of a sink into my face. Which is exactly what it is, of course. The tooth looks much better, but I’m not fully ready to judge until its neighbour is equally dressed in porcelain. For this other front tooth, a new crown was to be fitted at the same time as the veneer, but the dentist thought it wasn’t fitting properly, and sent it back to the mysterious lab that forged it for a replacement.

I’m grateful that she takes this trouble over getting it right, but am irritated that I have to spend an unexpected 2 and a half weeks with a rather gappy temporary affair in its place. And the more I think about it, the more I’m starting to feel unhappy with the veneer. Is it really better? Does it really fit? Can I smile in the same way I did before? Has it made things worse? Should I see yet another dentist about it? The more I anguish over this, the less I can think straight about it.

Unlike doctors, I never seem to fully trust dentists, even the ones I like. I can’t stop thinking about the incongruously large amounts of money asked for at every turn. I view lawyers with the same suspicion.

This is why I could never work in such fields myself. At the moment of telling the patient or client how much my services are going to cost, I would find it impossible not to laugh out loud.

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The Quentin Crisp evening went well. At my suggestion, Xavior put a small charge on the door this time – less than half the cost of a drink from the bar. This was purely for crowd control, and made all the difference. We performed to those who wanted to see us, rather than those who were just drinking. People like to pay for things – especially if the things are cheap. And once they do, they tend to want to see what they’ve paid for rather than talk over it.

It turned out to be the first time I’ve performed spoken word and felt I actually did okay. It helped that the material was the work of someone else, so I thank Mr Crisp from beyond the grave. One of my recitals of Crisperanto occurred right at the end, when the kind fellow on door had retired for the night. Naturally, with no gate-keeping in place, a drunk fool immediately strode in and pulled up a chair right by the stage. He started to have a go at me, and to everyone’s surprise (not least my own) I stopped my reading, glowered at him and hissed slowly, carefully, and in the most serious tone I’ve spoken in my life:

“Please respect me. And I will respect you afterwards.”

I have no idea where that came from, or even quite what it means, but it does mark the first time I’ve spoken back to anyone in my life, to their face. A date for the diary indeed. And about time too, some might say.

It helped that the next line from Mr Crisp’s philosophy was:

“Every day, when you wake up, you should say to yourself, preferably out aloud:

‘OTHER PEOPLE ARE A MISTAKE!'”

At which I paused and stared directly at the heckler for a little too long. The audience laughed and applauded. It seemed they were on my side, not his.

This was my first inkling of the feeling a stand-up comedian must get when he wins such battles in the field of their profession. And they ARE battles. I now realise such comedians must have a pugilist instinct in them, far more so than an actor. If they lose such battles, they ‘die’ on stage.

I used to think that was a rather over the top expression, but now I understand what it means only too well. Last Friday, at last, I managed to live.