Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Every month or two a little voice in my head starts telling me I ought to go to the dentist for a check up. I usually tell this little voice to put a sock in it then go and eat some sugar. On Friday, though, while I was cleaning my teeth one of my fillings fell out. It's one of those front fillings that sits between your tooth and gum to protect the nerve, if your gum has receded. Without this filling, eating drinking and even breathing are agony.

'Ha ha ha-ha ha,' said the little voice in my head.

One of the reasons I was so reluctant to be stuck in that chair, staring up the dentist's nostrils while he stuck needles in my gums and drills in my teeth was...oh, it's self-explanatory, isn't it? But on top of all this, I really hated my dentist. For one, he wouldn't accept NHS patients and therefore charged an arm and a leg for a tooth - not a fair exchange. And while ripping me off and causing me immense pain, he liked to talk about his Porsche. And how he couldn't afford NHS patients. A total wanker.

But I'm registered at his clinic so I didn't have much choice. I had to go back. I'd have to grin and bear it and bite the bullet.

However, when I got there, to my great relief I found that Mr Porsche has been replaced by a nice Iranian dentist who doesn't drill your teeth after not injecting enough painkiller, and who takes NHS patients. Hurrah. I drooled a bit afterwards, though.