Sets My Teeth On Edge

 On Monday, the urge came upon me to pay a visit to the dental hygienist. It was an odd urge because I do not like being poked around, especially by relative strangers, and THAT is why I prefer to take my health into my own hands because I’ve known myself for 60 years (I know! How did THAT happen??) and, therefore, am the person who knows me best for poking around purposes. 

Anyhoo, in honour of heeding my intuition, and also because the insides of my bottom front teeth were feeling a tad gritty, like the inside of a kettle that needs descaling, I ‘phoned my dental practice for an appointment. Carpe dentum, and all that. (Is it ‘dentum?’ If not, it jolly well ought to be. I declare it thus.)

‘I have a cancellation tomorrow afternoon at 2,’ said the receptionist. 

‘Super,’ said I. The deal was done and the floodgates opened for a rush of appointment reminder texts, all of which I ignored. I thought, I’m 60, not a goldfish. I can remember an appointment that’s only 24 hours away. 

Arriving at the dental practice at fifteen minutes to the hour because I am a firm believer in being prompt for appointments, I was met with a locked door. Still closed for lunch, apparently. Closed for lunch?? Isn’t that a rather old-fashioned concept these days? What happened to powering through all your allotted break times to keep on top of your work? That’s what I used to do when I was a teacher #martyrtothemachine. I rolled my eyes,  and took the opportunity to nip back up the road to the Post Office to withdraw some cash. I try to pay for as many things as possible with cash these days. ‘Tis the modern trend. 

Eventually, I was granted access to the hallowed halls of dentistry and, in the waiting area, was treated to a big TV which was screening music videos; none of the artists - and I use that word in the loosest possible sense - were recognisable to me. I felt wistful for the 1970s and 80s when proper music was made. 

And then I was called upstairs to the hygienist. Her name is Pat. She, like me, is a woman of a certain age, and to the casual bystander looks a harmless and cheerful sort. I am not fooled, though. 

‘I haven’t seen you since 2019!’ she said, cheerfully snapping on a pair of blue plastic gloves as I slid myself onto her recliner chair as gracefully as I could, only slightly regretting my choice of ‘on the knee’ length skirt which rode up somewhat once my bum was being squished by the chair. 

I smiled. ‘Really?’ I said, knowing full-well she was correct because why would I submit myself to the scraping and wrenching torture that is the art of the dental hygienist more than once every six years? 

‘Let’s have a look at the damage, shall we?’ she continued. She seemed disappointed that the ‘damage’ wasn’t nearly as bad as she was clearly anticipating. ‘Oh,’ said she, ‘not too bad, actually,’ said she, ‘it won’t be too big a job,’ she finished. 

She looked longingly at her heavy-duty electric pick axe, and selected a small zippy thing instead. 

There are many things I’d rather do than suffer a session with a dental hygienist. Give birth, for example, something that, in my experience, is far less violent. I girded my loin and I went into meditation mode, albeit a tense meditation mode, whilst Pat chatted away nineteen to the dozen about all sorts of things. I couldn’t tell you what because I was concentrating on a woodland glade in Springtime, watching the bunnies hop ‘n’ skip around. 

Because she is left-handed, the job of her assistant to managed the sucky hose thing was somewhat scuppered and at one point I felt a fairly substantial trickle of water - let’s call it that instead of a heady mixture of water, saliva and bits of limescale - sliding past my ear and down the back of my neck. But because I am English and have a stiff upper lip (and tense lower jaw for the duration of the appointment) I didn’t say anything. I just made a note to wash my hair when I got home. 

Eventually, fully scraped, picked, wrenched, flossed, buffed and polished, Pat announced that she didn’t need to see me every six months because I had ‘good’ dental hygiene habits (🙄) but once a year would be good because ‘we have to take extra special care of our gums as we age.’ I afforded her my best and most benign non-committal smile and made my way back down the stairs to reception to pay the bill. 

‘Shall I make you an appointment for next time?’ said the receptionist, after I’d picked myself up from the floor at the shock of paying £46 for a barely half an hour session. 

‘I’ll check my diary when I get home and call back,’ said I, which is my stock response when faced with appointment pressure. 

The receptionist seemed affronted. ‘Pat is booked up until June next year,’ she said, ‘don’t leave it too long.’ 

Reader, I did NOT say, ‘Well, good for her.’ That would have been rude. Neither did I ask if her booking system extended to 2031.

And I refrained from pointing out that I phoned yesterday and got an appointment for today. Not a seven month wait there, eh?

As the saying goes, ‘An over-zealous booking system causes a surfeit of cancellations.’ 

(It is a saying. Honestly. I haven’t just made it up. As if I would…)