Catching a break

Well, I can’t catch a break, can I? Or can I?

Yesterday’s dental appointment revealed, as I suspected, that the tooth has to go, no chance of a crown, so, it’s stick my front tooth in a glass of water every night or a $5000 implant.

Under ordinary circumstances this would be a complete fucking disaster.

As it happens it’s still bloody fucking annoying, but it could be a lot worse.

A couple of months ago I suddenly remembered that one of the jobs I had back in the noughties in London had a company pension scheme. Dug the information out of an old folder. Oh, look: when I left in 2005 it was worth £4,500. Hmm. When could I cash this out?

A rather tortuous process began of trying to get information out of the pension company. After two failed attempts in response to requests by two different people to submit information via and encrypted site that didn’t work, I got a message the third day from a third adviser who helpfully suggested perhaps he should give me a ring. I explained the time difference and we set a time for a call. Tony was very helpful. Turned out my £4,500 was now nearly £11,000. Bonus! (It also turned out I could have cashed it in when I was 55, but, oh, well, never mind, it was worth more now.)

Even after tax, that’s a serious chunk of change. I could do something with it. Newkitchen cupboards, maybe? Or hardwood floors in the kitchen and diningroom? Hell, I could go completely mad and book myself a trip on the Orient Express. (Okay, I know that would be a ridiculous amount of money for a short experience – not that it’s even on offer at the moment – but, still, you know, wow.)

All I had to do was fill out a form and submit a couple of documents. The first was a certified copy of my driver’s license. No problemo. The local RCMP detachment could do that. The second was a recent paper statement from my UK bank, which I thought might be a hassle, as I’ve been banking online with no statements for years, but, lo and behold, there on the bank’s website was an option to order a paper statement. Hurrah! Of course, in the three weeks it took for the statement to actually arrive here, my tooth flared up again and with that the Orient Express left the station without me.

So, as I said, could be worse. Still fucking annoying.