I visited my dentist this afternoon, combining the need for two fillings with a visit to the hygienist. I can't say I was looking forward to going, but it still was good to leave work at lunchtime, seven hours early.
Many modern dentists appear to be little more than cosmetic surgeons, offering a complete tooth-whitening service to the orally vain. I've managed to keep on the books of the old-fashioned NHS dentist I first used twenty years ago, despite having lived at ten different addresses around the country over that period. I may now have two extra slabs of Alzheimer-inducing amalgam in my mouth, but at least they only cost me £5.64 each. I suspect that I belong to the last generation with fillings, growing up before the advent of fluoridation and toothkind Ribena, and as a result my teeth probably have as many holes as the average golf course. A young person today does of course generally have just as much metal in their mouth as I do, but it tends to be in one lump through their tongue instead.
I've only ever visited a hygienist once before, and I absolutely hated it. The brushing, poking and scraping made my stomach turn and my teeth wince, the so-called-health-advice I was given would have been patronising even to an eight-year-old, and I swore I'd never go near the bloke again. Other people then told me that this was a very unusual reaction and that their hygienists were lovely people - none of which corresponded at all with my first traumatic experience. Then, at my most recent check-up back in August, my dentist instructed me to book another appointment with the hygienist from hell. I tried hard not to appear a big wuss, but I told her there was no way I was allowing that devil in my mouth again. "Ah yes," said my dentist, "a lot of people thought that, and so we sacked him."
And so this afternoon I braved the new hygienist, who thankfully turned out to be competent, calm and not just another oral sadist. I won't mind going back next time, even if she does insist on saying "...and don't forget to floss!" as a parting comment, but now I wonder if I have a case for suing my dental practice for the incompetent treatment I received last time.
Anyway, I'm home now and I've treated myself to one of Tesco's finest Sticky Toffee Puddings as a reward. Just as long as I can get the left hand side of my mouth open wide enough.
