…when is an Iconic Author not an Iconic Author?… when he’s being a scaredy-cat sissy at the dentist…

…they breed ‘em tough where I come from in Docklands Govan in Glasgow… a hard crew, not to be meddled with lightly… sculpted and hewn by centuries of aggression we are… except when it comes to the dentist… ‘fess up time… if had to choose between walking across molten coals barefoot, or a session in that reclining ‘yeez-won’t-feel-a-thing’ lounger, give me the former every time… after six-plus decades, ‘decayed’ is the operative WURD for some of my chomping gear… for over half a century, this ol’ Jurassic has plied himself assiduously to undermining his natural dental apparatus by an unending ration of chocolate (who hasn’t?), ice-cream (but only by the bucket-load, mind) and all manners of edible stuff, non-conducive to healthy molars… little wonder then, that the infrequent sojourns to the gob-driller fill me with trepidation, bordering on outright anticipated terror… this bold Iconic Author the Nobel Literary Prize…