It was Springtime in the early 1980’s, I was on my bike and trespassing. I had no negative intent. The house and large garden were well placed to overlook Wimbledon tennis. I cycled slowly along a winding drive, till I arrived at a double garage.
Leaning my bike up against a wall, and feeling curious, I looked out towards the distant famous sports ground.
My stereo FM pocket radio in my earpieces was tuned to BBC Radio 3, classical afternoon music.
No owners appeared, no one was about. The tennis ground was too far away to be of interest. I decided to go back the way I’d come.
Without warning, canine jaws closed on the right tendon behind my right knee. I half turned to see a big, light brown, short-haired dog, its jaws firmly locked. It was looking up at me.
The sweet music in both ears continued to lull me. I did not leave this state of peace. In fact, I felt no pain, only a feeling of mild inconvenience to have my afternoon calm interrupted.
With a lapdog size companion next to him, the big dog looked into my eyes.
He was obviously surprised, but more than that, my reaction of absence of any reaction was new to him. He obviously had no clue what to do next.
Perhaps it was my gentle smile that caused him to let go of his mouthful of my flesh. I later found a hole in my trousers and puncture wounds in my bruised skin.
My next move was to retreat. I walked backwards more slowly than seemed possible or sensible. I walked my bicycle calmly back to the road. It might have been Newstead Road, but I’m not sure now. It was more than forty years ago.
At this period, I was having major dental work to place crowns on every one of my 29 teeth. This work was to be completed in sections over four months. I needed to prevent further damage due to night grinding (sic). My late father had wrecked his dentition, because he had never had a full mouth of crowned teeth made.
My dentist was also my friend. We’d sometimes drink in his local pub. He willingly agreed to proceed with the work while I listened to classical music on the earpieces of my little FM stereo radio.
I am sure the music in my ears gave a boost to my comfort and confidence.
It was truly major dental work. When it had successfully completed, my dentist boasted that the NHS payments had been enough for him to pay off the mortgage on his Wimbledon practice.
In January 2007, I used this method of anaesthesia by classical music when I had an Epiretinal Membrane Peel operation on my right eyeball at Moorfields Eye Hospital, London. l chose a local anaesthetic, because I believed I would have a ripping yarn to tell all my friends for years to come.
Yes, I was fully conscious during all stages of this fascinating procedure.
No! I had been wrong. Every time I try to interest anyone in the exciting details of this rare eye surgery as imprinted on my memory, the room clears as surely as the ripe cheeses cleared the railway carriage in Jerome K. Jerome’s tale of the transported cheeses in chapter 4 of Three Men in a Boat.
The only person who has ever listened and even asked supplementary questions is Julian, and my local Optician, bless him.
This summer, I had to have a lower pre-molar extracted. Once again I plugged in to music.
This time the music was my own 6 minutes long compilation of Buddhist monks chanting AUM, overlaid with my playing on my goatskin drum, with three of my largest Tibetan Sounding Bowls, my tubular bells, and the magic of Koshi Wind Chimes. My friend heard my Koshi Chimes once, and immediately he went, “It’s like an Eargasm.”
The dental assistant obligingly repeated the 6 minute compilation three times on my mobile phone. This had the effect of chasing away all pain and discomfort.
FOOTNOTE
I used a commercial recording of AUM Chanting, and so for reasons of copyright, I hesitate to put a public link to my music here. If you would like to enjoy it, please send me a message.
The View at 72+ 