Didn’t you love penny sweets as a kid? Black Jacks, Sherbet Dip Dabs, jawbreakers? I did: the net result being that my adult teeth are a war zone. In the past few months, I’ve endured hours of emergency pain-relief dentistry, followed by two separate root surgeries, followed by several hours of crown work, which I’m currently in the middle of. I should have Cameron Diaz’s smile for the amount of money I’ve spent. I don’t mean a smile similar to it. I mean her actual smile.

I like my dentist – it is very, very important to mention that, can’t stress that enough – but I do not understand anything about his world. When does the urge to drill into the living bones of your fellow man come upon you? They’re not bones, I know. Christ knows what they are, these enamel nubs sprouting from our gums. Are they alive? Why do the mineral idiots have nerves in them that serve no purpose other than to become excruciatingly painful and maddeningly inaccessible? No one has explained it to me. Whip all of them out, I wanted to tell the specialist who was sticking tiny needles into my canals under a microscope. Why are there canals?

Obviously, I couldn’t talk; despite that, he kept asking me questions. Like whether I was going on holiday, while charging me the exact amount of money I could have spent going on holiday. Is there a more expensive way to volunteer for such exquisite pain, apart from the boutique stuff that goes on in basements after party conferences? It’s my wallet that really hurts.

I go private for dental work because at some point in the past it was explained to me that NHS fillings were made out of melted spoons and woodlice or, rather, that’s what I heard. I was an actor at that point (maybe I still am, but at this point my career isn’t resting, it’s comatose) and, like most actors, unbelievably vain. I wanted, needed, porcelain teeth that gleamed like a wall of urinals. “Because of the castings. I do filming you see,” I told the receptionist, who didn’t care. What if I had a meeting with Sam Mendes and he wanted to peer deep into my mouth? I’m not sure what roles I thought I would be going up for.

I regret that now, as I sit in the waiting room, listening to staff tell walk-ins that they are no longer accepting NHS patients. Those are chilling words. I thought the NHS was like a parent, always standing behind the door to your home, ready to open it to you. And I suppose it is; it’s just behind fewer doors.

The most upsetting thing is that I’ve come to enjoy this. I like the motorised orthopaedic chaise, plus you get to wear sunglasses indoors, like Kanye West. They play Air, Portishead and Morcheeba, trippy stuff that makes me almost as nostalgic as the jawbreakers do. Admittedly, it’s quite unrelaxing when they do the x-rays and everyone else runs out of the room, the bloody cowards. But it’s nice to have a lie down in the middle of the day, isn’t it? Even if someone’s trying to put an angle grinder inside your head. Now that I’m skint, this is probably the closest I’ll get to pampering myself all year.

It may be too late; I can feel myself getting interested, which is the step before I start Munchausening myself into experimental treatments. Teeth tattoos. LED braces. Getting a second row put in, like a shark. Better watch that grill, Diaz, I’m coming for it.

Pretty words for heinous acts

A study indicates that acting out cuckolding fantasies – which usually involve watching your partner committing adulterous acts – can actually strengthen a relationship. The issue of watching your partner get horizontal with a stranger for your pleasure is a complex one, and there are a variety of important, counterintuitive conclusions to be drawn from these findings – all of which pass me by, because I’m just happy such a lovely word is back in parlance. (Admittedly, the far right got there a few months ago, hurling the shortened slur “cuck” at emasculated, leftwing softies who possess traits such as empathy. But that sounds awful, and isn’t what the word means, so let’s ignore them, eh.)

“Cuckolding”. Delights the mouth, doesn’t it? It’s probably the nicest word to describe what is, in most cases, not a great situation. They have always had a seductive slant for me, pretty words for heinous acts. “Embezzling” is another favourite. Embezzling. Like snuggling deep into a suitcase of purloined bills. Mmm, “purloined”, now you mention it. I’m a sucker for them, although it’s not a good look. I’ll hear how the vampire bats exsanguinated their helpless victims and think: “Now, that’s a lovely word.”

I forget not everyone is like me. I used to live with two degus, which are a cute relative of the chinchilla. I named the boy Typhus and the girl Chlamydia. People didn’t like it. But you know the feeling when you meet someone, and they just … are a Chlamydia? It was that. One friend told me it was an awful name to give a lovely creature, but I think the opposite. It’s a beautiful name, and to be honest, she wasn’t that nice. She would scream at Typhus, and stand on his head to get food. And I’m sure, if she’d had options, she probably would have cuckolded him, too. Then again, if he was into it, what’s the harm?

Hanger chief

I read this month that Penélope Cruz has a collection of more than 500 types of coat hanger, none of which are metal. Now there’s an example of paraphilia I can get on board with. Presumably, she has covering bamboo, and many woods, in a variety of gauges. Clipped, flocked, bar, foldable. Surely not plastic. It’s important to me that they are different types of hanger, meaning she has an interest in the tool, and doesn’t just own a lot of clothes. Sadly, there’s not a lot of information, and no pictures, only rumours. Why? It’s 2018 and nothing to be hung up about.