Of sutures and seething...

I woke up this morning.

No, not a blues song, just a sign that I actually slept. The pain in my jaw that made me wake up every time I turned over in my sleep and placed the right hand side of my face on the pillow has subsided enough to allow me not to wake up every couple of hours or so. Even better, the dissolving sutures holding my gums together are finally beginning to soften and break down. Soon I might even be able to clean my teeth properly, rather than relying on industrial strength mouthwash, delicious dreamy codeine and very ginger brushing of my butchered gingiva.

This is the good news.

The bad news is that I received my final pay cheque from the college. I looked at my online bank statement in disbelief. The sum was paltry. I'm not sure what sort of redundancy settlement they think it is, but pathetic and insulting spring to mind. Were I relying on it to pay my rent this month I would be fucked over a barrel with a very long pole indeed. As it is, I am merely seething that for all the effort and dedication I showed I am remunerated with something that looks like the tip a group of lecturers out on the piss would leave for the impoverished waiting staff. I've probably given more to charity over the past year.

-Tant pis, as the French might put it - it's no use fretting over it now - better it is in my account than elsewhere I suppose, but a five minute peevish seethe has helped me realise that I really do need to do something that rewards me better. Not just in terms of hard cash, but something that makes me feel as though I am doing something that is recognised and rewarded in a way that makes me feel as though I am doing some good and can feel good about myself. (Not that I don't feel good about myself, but you know what I mean...)

In other news, I have added to my collection of bruises. Over the past fortnight, my legs - my shins in particular - have looked as though I have been hacked down by marauding shinty players... Bruises have variously been described as resembling a map of Leeds, Manchester and London (particularly around the Isle of Dogs, now located five inches below my knee...) have taken on the colours of Norwich City FC and West Ham, and even been compared to the spotted coats of giraffes. My newest bruise is not on my legs, however. It sits, barely discernable, in my scalp from where I cracked my head somewhat stiffly on a hand basin. Worse still, I was sober as a Mormon. I did get to see tweety birds and stars and sat dazedly watching Big Brother thinking it fine entertainment... so it wasn't all bad.