I went to the dentist the other day. Well, actually, it was about two weeks ago now, but as much as I'm tempted to feel guilty for postponing this post about my trip to the face-drillers for a fortnight out of laziness, it really doesn't matter because you don't care. Quite rightly.
So, I went to the dentist two weeks ago. Damn it, I almost want to start again now, it's already sounding like a boring, run-of-the-mill blog post from some pretentious teenager who genuinely thinks their two-faced friends could give a shit about the condition of their teeth. Which, if you think about it, would be kind of weird if it was true. I don't go around thinking about how people molars are hanging in there, swamped in sticky saliva in the stinking grotto of their mouth. That's just freaky.
So two weeks ago I went to the dentist. There's a big fearful stigma about going to the dentist, mainly carried on from 50 year-olds reminding their kids on how mercilessly brutal it was in their day, where they'd tie you to a chair, prise open your mouth with a car jack, and indiscriminately attack your teeth with a pneumatic drill. Because they didn't have anaesthesia in those days. However, there's something soothing I find in the dentist. It wasn't the case in the waiting room in which some shady-looking character opposite me kept looking seedily at my phone and daring me to make eye contact, but once in the Matrix-chair preparing to be 'jacked in' and given sunglasses (apparently to stop liquid getting in my eyes, but I know it was to complete the 'Neo' look) I was completely at peace. I was able to watch the news while a rubber-gloved South African investigated the inside of my mouth with his feelers, and so occasionally make the mistake of chuckling at the thought of David Cameron, Nick Clegg, Gordon Brown and a pack of hungry lions fighting to the death. When they eventually did find a problem with my Coke-soaked grinders, it was a sticky lump of matter stuck to to bottom of a molar which I assume to be a week-old morsel of Refresher that hadn't made it out. This was casually drilled out, which I honestly didn't mind, despite the tools used literally being a mini buzzsaw and a vacuum cleaner.
Having finished the inspection, my last obstacle was getting out in a non-awkward fashion. I have a bit of a history in clinical environments for doing something clumsy or cringey, and unfortunately this was no exception. The dentist held out his hand. In this day and age, that can mean a lot of things, right? I gestured towards him the tissues he had given me, believing he was going to throw them in a bin. He didn't grab. I then latched on to the idea that it was of course the classic British action of the handshake, so I grabbed his hand and shook it heartily. 'No,' he said, 'It's the glasses I'm after'. I had completely forgot I had them on. Thanks for the cheeky humiliation there, 'Freddie the dentist', here's hoping you'll have forgotten about that awkward little exchange by the time I next see you in six months.
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