I would suggest no one likes going to the dentist. If they do then they obviously have some congenital defect or some perverse addiction to pain. When I say going I of course mean having treatment and not just popping in to have a chat and dip some Ginger Nuts into a mug of tea.
The business isn’t always painful though. Regular check-ups are routine. You receive a notification from the surgery that it has been six months since your last visit therefore a standard examination is required. Easy peasy. Today wasn’t like that.
The surgery sits between a sun tanning studio and a public house. I guess the object must be to baste yourself a golden brown in the first so you look good for the second, before you wobble over to the pub holding your bruised jaw in one hand then get pissed to relieve the pain.
The Rochford dentist is a former tea room and of early Victorian design. There are two bay windows that hold the front door between their glass bosoms .The two ladies behind the reception desk were nice enough as they handed me a form to fill in. This being the first time I had used this particular practise meant my giving them pertinent information: age, health, address, medication etc. Once this was done I crossed the polished wooden floor boards, all very 21st century, and climbed the stair to where a lounge, fitted with leather sofas and a TV, greeted me.
Then the Nazi, Goering I think, summoned me in. In actual fact the Nazi was a pretty young woman, early thirties maybe, of Asian descent. I knew those brown eyes would be a problem later on for where the hell do you look when she is prodding around your mouth? Up her nose? Certainly not.
Two injections later, with needle the length of Texas and hypodermic as big as Russia, the anaesthetic was administered and the idiot primate took over my mouth. I think they deliberately ask silly questions during the process just to see what incomprehensible rubbish you utter. I swear they film these session then play them back to their mates for a laugh.
“Ib peels a bid fubby” I said trying to smile as my lips went in opposing directions and my mouth did a Dali.
After the job had been done I was then given a well-rehearsed speech telling me what to do to ease the discomfort. Then I was handed a printed form with the self-same information given verbally but seconds ago. Perhaps this duplication is meant to appear professional or it might be that my responses to the questions asked me had convinced the dentist that I was indeed of a simple mind.
Then came the forgotten pain: paying the bill. Ouch!
all words and art are copyright © of Russell 'C.J' Duffy.To view my books on Amazon/Kindle go here: https://www.amazon.com/author/russellduffy -- For another side of CJ go here: sOMeThiNg For tHE wEeKeND, SiR?