In the Dentist's Chair

It all began on Harrogate railway station nearly 3 weeks ago. I was enjoying a packet of crisps when suddenly I broke a tooth. This was a bit inconvenient as I was due to fly to Portugal the next day.

Anyway the break seemed to cause no discomfort but to be safe I asked Teapot to book me an appointment with the dentist on my return. This was a test of faith and courage as I had not been to Dr Drill for about 2 years or so.

So off I went and after some x rays and a lot of ums and ahs I was on the end of two root fillings and crowns and one extraction. What Teapot's dad called in the good old days a bob rip. No longer a bob but still, when all is said and done, a rip! And no matter the tooth is dead we can fill it and crown it all the same. Must be some theology there.

So after round one and minus one tooth I was back today for some excavation of teeth dead and alive. I had to remind Dr D that he had already removed one as he read out his notes and mentioned extraction again. And so to pass the time on as I lay powerless at his mercy I thought about writing this blog.

Teapot had told me that Dr D was definitely one capable of topping the charts in the eyes of the fair sex and it made me wonder if she had a secret thing about men in white coats. I put that thought away just as Dr D injected my face and told me if at any time I wanted hin to stop I should raise my left hand. I was tempted to ask what would happen if I raised my right hand but felt that humour of that kind is best left unsaid when you are laid out before a man with a hyperdermic and an assortment of drill bits.

He then proceeded to whirr away with enthusiasm like he was trying to play a tune with its high pitched whines and low noted drills sometimes fast sometimes slow. And warming to his taks he went on to tooth number two but this time a shorter piece. More a sonata than a symphony if you follow my drift.

I did begin to wonder if dentists have inherited the DNA of the wrack masters of the medieval torture chambers.

Anyway back again for another session in a week or so's time. And in this 60th anniversary year of the NHS of all the services it is the one you can be more or less sure these days you pay for. Paying for the torture chamber! Perhaps I will try to figure that out next time I am in the dentist's chair.