It's not my fault. Honest.

I have another dental appointment tomorrow. For those of you keeping count, this is my third attempt to try and see a dentist and judging by the twinge in my tooth which is becoming ever more prevalent, I suspect my need is becoming increasingly urgent. Fortune and my own general incompetence intervened on previous occasions and, alas, it doesn't look as though I'll be able to make tomorrows appointment either. Lest you think I have some sort of phobia against men and woman in white coats (which may very well be true, but that's outside the parameters of today's discussion), I should explain that the present circumstances are entirely <adopt John Malkovich accent>beyond my control</adopt John Malkovich accent>. No, stop looking at me like that, there really are extenuating circumstances this time - it looks as though the dental practice burned to the ground this afternoon. And no, I wasn't any near the accident when it occurred.

The fire itself didn't originate from the dental practice itself, but rather from the shop next door. I was slightly curious as to why such a large area had been cordoned off (traffic had been diverted and there were a great deal of official looking people present), so I asked a nearby policeman what had happened. It transpires that the shop next to the dental practice numbered, amongst other items in it's inventory, a not inconsiderable quantity of gas cylinders.

I'll call tomorrow to double check, but I rather suspect my appointment should now be spoken of in the past tense. Along with the dental practice.