‘I really must ring the dentist for an appointment,’ I say, as a tiny, icy twinge stabs me in the back tooth. ‘I’ll do it as soon as I’ve finished the washing up … And darned these seven or eight socks … And, my goodness, these floors need polishing …’
And so it goes on all day, until the pricking of my conscience begins to outweigh the throbbing of my tooth. Then, but only when all the odd jobs I can think of are done, I reluctantly lift the receiver and start dialling.
Over the years we’ve kept to fairly regular check-ups and known quite an assortment of dentists. The current chap is good with teeth. But dour. So none of my family are exactly forcing my hand by clamouring for advance bookings. Anna and Daniel, who quite enjoyed visits to earlier, merrier dentists and think they are nice people (I made very sure no one told them any ghastly toothy tales in their infancy), are puzzled by his notable lack of humour. I tried, at first, to enliven our visits by establishing a cheery rapport.
‘My uncle’s dentist says our family has the Hapsburg jaw,’ I said brightly before offering the contents of mine for his inspection.
‘Well you haven’t,’ he snapped. ‘It’s an Angles Class III malocclusion.’
A pity, really, because we lantern-jawed types like to cling to our royal connections. And even if the Hapsburgs were a funny lot they do sound much more fun than a malocclusion. Of any class.
But no matter what sort of chap the dentist happens to be, I try hard to settle myself into a philosophical frame of mind as he pumps the chair into position. At least it’s a wonderful chance to put my feet up, I tell myself firmly. It is also quite a good opportunity to tune in to his tummy rumble.
I am now ready to practice my own homespun version of yoga. I fix my thoughts on something beautiful and remote – like what I’d do if I won the pools (which is fairly remote because I don’t actually do the pools) and mentally remove myself from his presence.
He can then close in with his buzz saws and mini-Hoovers and grappling irons all he wants. I don’t care. I’m busy buying new houses for my nicer relatives and planning my own world cruise. I’ve always done this in moments of stress and can thoroughly recommend it. It sometimes rattles dentists though. ‘Answer me – answer me – are you all right?’ they are prone to shout, staring closely at my eyeballs. And there was that time just as I was rounding Cape Horn in this beautifully appointed catamaran when I was aroused by a distant cry of, ‘You’re biting me. Do you hear me? You’re biting my hand.’ But it has got me, if not the dentist, through many an appointment with minimum wear and tear.
‘My God,’ says David, as I return to the waiting room. ‘It sounded as if he was widening the M4 in there!’
‘Your husband’s turn now,’ says the receptionist gaily.
‘Never mind, David,’ I tell him philosophically (but with a certain amount of personal relief). ‘At least it’s better than going to see the doctor. We do at least know in this case that, whatever the diagnosis, it’s bound to be confined to the mouth.’
He moves unenthusiastically through to the surgery and I smile cheerfully at the other waiting patients, but they just go on staring bleakly at old copies of Horse and Hound.
Being a raw carrot eater as a child I was well into adult life before I needed any treatment. In those days my dentist was a charming elderly man in a panama hat and alpaca jacket. He didn’t seem at all like a dentist. ‘Ah, my dear,’ he would sigh. ‘What great pleasure it gives me to look into a mouth like yours!’ And he would hum to himself and twirl his little mirror and pat my knee. (Come to think of it, perhaps he wasn’t a dentist!)
My first extraction came some years later when I was living in the wilds of deepest Scotland, and a visit to the surgery required a long bus ride into town.
On the return journey I noticed that the other passengers were choosing seats as far away as possible and then darting me quite frightened glances. Poor souls. I knew why when I finally saw myself in a mirror. I was ashen-faced from the experience anyway, but the trickle of dried blood running down from the corner of my mouth certainly didn’t improve my appearance.
Regular bus passengers had my particular sympathy because I’d only recently travelled on that same route to see a doctor about a strange allergy I’d developed. This had brought my face up in dozens of tiny sores. Which the doctor had painted with some purple stuff …
On the whole I loved living in Scotland, but I did seem extra happening-prone up there. So if you, too, find yourself in those wilder northern reaches and you hear strange legends of a scabby vampire who used to roam the countryside by bus, don’t worry. It was probably only me.
Nor am I the only strange sight you may have seen returning by bus from the dentist. A friend, hearing my story, was reminded of a dear aunt of hers who was sent home with a frozen mouth. Having forgotten her contact lenses and therefore unable to see or feel her lips, the poor lady had gamely reached for lipstick and mirror and painted in a perfect bright red mouth way down in the lower half of her chin.
Returning to the present, I gather up polish and dusters and pause to admire the fantastic shine I’ve just put on the woodblock flooring. It’s no use, though, the twinges are gathering momentum and I’ll have to make that appointment.
But I think I’ll just tidy my desk first. And sharpen these pencils. And write a few overdue letters. And pop out for some new blotting paper. And – Ouch!!
Oh, all right then …