Time for my annual check-up at the dentist today. She has moved premises to somewhere nearer home. My husband tries to cheer me up (because, folks, I suffer from severe dentophobia) by describing the new dental surgery like this: “Honestly, you’ll love it. It’s got stars in the floor. It’s like you’ve died and gone to heaven!”
Anyway, so there I am in the new surgery. The floor does indeed have sparkling silver stars in it so that it is like walking on a starry heaven. But guess what? It still feels like the waiting room to hell.
After an excruciating delay, I am shown into a room which is all windows, white floor and shiny new equipment. First off, the X-rays. Then the dental hygienist comes in and starts excavating for lost relics, digging deep down between the teeth with an enormous brush. “You’ve got tartar,” she explains. “And that’s my area of expertise!” she exclaims with glee as she continues her archaeological dig.
I try to watch the synchronized diving because each room has got its very own TV on the ceiling. It’s not easy because now she’s polishing my teeth with a lemon-scented liquid (rather like the scented wipes you get on a plane) and it is squirting up my nose and all over my face.
Then the dentist herself comes in, prods around a bit and looks at the X-rays. I wait for my doom: as long as I can remember I have always always had to have work done on my teeth. Always.
She delivers my sentence: “Your teeth look good! Come back in a year!”
That’s when I think I have died and gone to heaven.