To be born Welsh

I have a dentist's appointment at 12.15 so, obviously, I can't settle to anything. 

I am having two fillings: one top right, one bottom left, if I recall correctly. I will probably be speechless afterwards. I hate going to the dentist. I might not have been badly hurt by one since my childhood but it's just the discomfort, the wanting to swallow, the how-many-things-can-I-get-in-your-mouth-at-once uckiness of it all.

The last dentist I saw, the one who diagnosed the decay, lacked a bedside manner. I hope my original dentist is back from maternity leave. Also 12.15 is not a good time. She will be hungry. 

I am occupying myself by preparing the church newsletter. I am filling it full of Welsh stuff as it's Dydd Dewi Sant (Day David's Saint) on Sunday. There's a famous Welsh saying slightly adapted from the first verse of a poem: 

To be born Welsh is to be born privileged.
Not with a silver spoon in your mouth,
But music in your heart and poetry in your soul.

You'll find it only tea-towels, coasters, mugs, any sort of souvenir. The original poem, In Passing by Brian Harris, is lot more depressing than it begins. Like this verse:

This Land of our Fathers was built on coal.

Its rivers of mingled blood and sweat

Have forever darkened it,

Relieved only by death.

But we've got music and poetry so that's fine.