The Saga of the Jaw...
Or
In the beginning, well, after the word and all that malarky; anyway, in my beginning I was born. That's an entirely different story however, and the tale I am about to relate occured nearly 16 years later.
Before I begin, I would like to assert that all characters are entirely factual, and any likeness with events past is probable as this is all true (if a little prone to literary flourishes and exaggerations). Where the narrative seems a little vague it is probably the case that the narrator was a little vague at the time, too...
But I digress (how unlike me (there you go again...))...
It all began over two years hence, a young, naive, innocent girl, yet but 15 decided to hit the pub (not in the literal sense, obviously... 
quite unlike the manner I hit the pavement in, really...) Fifty pounds , cash in hand at the end of the day (for being an extra in some obscure advert that never made the small screen) our heroine descended upon the Flamingo. The 'Flam' was reknowned throughout the area for being a 
hive of student activity, a complete dive that served anybody, and a pound a pint. Braving the foul taste that was (and probably still is) Fairfield (which becomes bearable after about a fivers worth) I set about the task at hand. Manyfold pints and greetings of old mates never previously met later, the older, more respectable sibling Matt, mentions home. Because of the layers of alcohol this information has to permeate, as well as the distortion of time this alcohol induces, it is, in reality, some time later that movement occurs.
Suddenly, Realisation dawns on the
alcohol-ridden Christine that there is a train to catch. Very soon. So in a manner undistiguishable from one that would be employed had large quantities of alcohol been consumed, Christine decides to run. Unfortunately, being unaware of the complexities of this maneuver, she omits to remove her hands from their snug nests in her pockets. The pavement proving more of an obstacle than would usually be anticipated, Chris launches herself facewards at it.
This results in the undeniable knowledge that Hardman Road is harder than I am.
Fortunately, due to the anaesthetic properties of alcohol, despite vomiting violently and spewing blood all over the pavement, the occasion was not painful. However one of the less fortunate side effects of alcohol hinders memory, thus it is that any recollection of wailing ambulance is minimal.
I have long felt that ambulancemen are not appreciated as they should be, a sentiment that the following 'tale within a tale' illustrates aptly; Performing duties that really should be above and beyond anybody's call, the ambulanceman with whom I was fortunate to share a ride was dealing with two obsteperous females. Louise was sober. And panicking. As for myself I was neither of these things. I was plastered, and irritable. How then to acheive a balance? The ambulancemans efforts were admirable, however, whilst he was successful in calming Louise down slightly, I proved more of a challenge. One would not have thought that a little alcohol mixed with an already obnoxious personality could turn
the seemingly simple task of checking whether my eyes were damaged into such a hefty one, but thus was to be the case. This, the ambulanceman learned during something along the lines of the following exchange:
"Can you read this sign over here, love?"
"Of course I can read that *BEEP* sign, and don't *BEEP* call me *BEEP* love *BEEP* etc *BEEP* etc"
[pause while Christine attempts to focus on sign that she hadn't even noticed before]
"It *BEEP* says 'We don't accept gratuities'"
(Which, to my credit, it did)
"Do you know what that means?"
This comment was not interpreted as the desperate need to keep me awake and make polite conversation that it undoubtably was...
"Of course I *BEEP* know what it *BEEP* means! Just because I've *BEEP* smashed my *BEEP* face up doesn't mean I'm *BEEP* stupid... etc *BEEP* etc"
Course, I've rethought that last comment since then (but not the *BEEP*'s). Still, it's a shame your sense of sarcasm goes, along with your memory and your sense of pain, or I'd've offered him a tip.
Anyway, after being laughingly escorted to the drunk 'cell' in Kingston hospital, my parents turned up... This was not, on the whole, good... Not only was the alcohol acting as a speech impediment, but so was my tongue (swollen and black as it was). As if looking like a hamster wasn't bad enough on it's own. Anyway, being inebriate to a degree that ensued I voiced all those opinions that you always think but should never say, I proceeded to destroy any parental relations and finally but firmly assert my claim on the role of 'irresponsible sibling' in our family.
Several hours later, our subject was deemed soberer, and relocated to Roehampton hospital where the oral specialists resided. The doctor on duty was duly called and arrived calling everyone 'hon' (Esther, my doctor was the only nice person at Roehampton). I was swiftly connected to a 
drip and bundled up to the childrens ward, where, with my now hampster-like features I managed to sufficiently scare the obnoxious little brat in the next bed.
Later still, after various x-rays, impressions and doctors talking jargon, it is revealed that Christine has broken her jaw in three places (Congrats!). This is in a way known as a 'Guardsman's fracture', because the only time they usually see jaws so completely hashed is when guardsmen fall asleep on sentry duty and fall on their faces. It is also revealed that none of my teeth have actually gone missing, the huge gap in between two of my teeth having been cause by my jaw bone splitting and forcing my teeth apart.
No premed (because she was deemed too calm about the whole situation (DAMN!)) and the cold feeling of anaesthetic creeping up her arm later, Christine wakes up. With a fever and lots of metal in her mouth.
At home, still hamsterified a couple of days later, friends come round to visit. Speech, it is discovered is still a problem ("Ugger off") and laughter hurts. This however is as nothing to the rumours that were circulating our school about me. These, I was reliably informed, ranged from my lip being completely numb (and this obviously meaning I would dribble for the rest of my life) to my having metal holding my face together in a way that would look not unlike Pinhead from Hellraiser.
You may think that after suffering a liquid diet for two months (you'd be surprised what purees...) and eventually having various wires painfully extracted from where they are embedded in my jaw (without the comfort of any anaesthetic; in fact this was the most painful part of the whole experience) that I would be okay. Well I thought that. Stupid, really, faith in the NHS? Tut tut, I think I asked for that one, but (as has already been established) I was young and naive then... Bits of metal remain in my jaw (disappointingly they don't set off airport metal detector/alarm type things, so I don't even have that consolation) and it soon transpires that something is amiss...
Well hell! Who needs teeth that meet?
Nobody's face is perfectly symmetrical, you know!
Egads! Nothing wrong with part of your jaw 'dissolving'!
Flared out? Well, it doesn't look that different...
(Erm... Hang on one cotton-picking second...)
Well, okay, it may not be quite right, but it's easily rectified...
(It is? Phew!)
What we'll do, you see, is, we'll break your top jaw to make it meet the bottom one we already messed up. Yes, that'll work.
(EEEEEEKKKKKK!)
Reluctant to allow the people who failed to put my jaw back correctly in the first place interfere with part of my face that I hadn't messed up first, a second opinion was sought.
The practical upshot of the second opinion's technical jargon was that the first opinion was talking bollocks. Unwilling, however to vindicate the first opinion quite so glibly (due to that same misplaced faith in the NHS that we have already encountered) a third opinion is approached. The third opinion agrees with the second opinion, so, thinking that maybe, just maybe the first opinion is in the wrong, we query his assertion that my top jaw needs breaking. The first opinion, upon learning that other opinions have been sought, is not happy. Upon discovering that the third opinion is someone he sometimes works with, he is even less happy. And, coincidentally enough (we went to an entirely different hospital for each opinion) it transpires that the doctor in question is actually working in Roehampton hospital today. Christine sits in one of those neat dentist-type chairs as the two consultants have a restrained, but technical argument about the appropriate course of action for her jaw over the top of her. Quite unsurprisingly, these first three opinions are quickly discarded and a fourth is required.
By now a little weary of inferiour arguing doctors, the name of the 'best bloke in the field' is sought (still, however on the NHS!) This is all very well, but he practises in Glasgow (Veterinarians Hospital Crap Joke Interlude: so where does he do the real performances then? huhuhahaha) Anyway, up to Glasgow I traipse. This doctor agrees with opinions 2 & 3, however, he also states that since they spent so long arguing about which bits of my jaw to break, the jaw in question has moved and thus my bite has changed.
So. For many moons I traipsed Glasgie-wards, and then home again because my jaw persisted in moving of it's own account. What's a girl to do?
Still, many interesting things happened whilst I was traipsing, for instance on one occasion, my boyfriend of the time (Nairn) slept with his ex-girlfriend, and later I got to meet several nice Glaswegian spods (well, it's not as much of a contradiction in terms as Military Intelligence... :) ), like Terminator and Marley as well as encountering pubs in Glasgow.
They say some people never learn, but meanwhile,
the saga continues...