It's spring*

 . . . And I have this toothache.  The gods wept.  Well, I wept.  Free range moaning.  Peter got back from hospital on Friday, and my tooth blew up on Saturday.  Saturday was bad, Saturday night was worse, Sunday was unspeakable.  Sunday night . . . well.  I just about dragged Nightingale Wood out of my rapidly deteriorating intellect last night but I ain't got nothing left.**  I am, however, now full of antibiotics—and ibuprofen and paracetamol—and things should improve.  Please.  For...