Me and Mr Dentist

Yesterday I went to the dentist.

Now, for most people this would not be a big deal.

Most people would turn up for their appointment, perhaps with a resigned, possibly slightly Gallic shrug of their shoulders and then continue on their merry way.

I, on the other hand, approach each appointment with a dread, nay fear, that borders on the phobic.

A dread, nay fear, borne of two events

Event one
Being taken to the dentist as an innocent 8year old and being held down in the dentists chair whilst a gas mask was clamped over my nose and mouth. Waking up some time later to find all (ALL) my back teeth had been extracted and I was forced to imbibe soup and Weetabix through a straw for several days afterwards. Whilst my Dad noisily and enthusiastically chewed toffees in front of me. Bless him.

Event two

Plucking up courage at 17 to go back to the dentist after a gap of nearly ten years to find that the routine filling I was expecting actually involved hot screws being inserted into root canals.

And so I approach dentists with caution.

And as I was sat in the dentists chair yesterday, cotton wool packed between gum and upper lip, clamp attached to tooth causing the occasional slight gag, dribble coming attractively out of the corner of my mouth, I thought…

Why would anyone want to become a dentist?”

Who would choose to spend their working life poking at rotting teeth and causing fear and pain?


And then an image popped into my mind…

Two words

marathon man

And then another thought

Quentin Tarantino?

A dentist before he became a film director.

Um well I haven’t actually checked out that fact. But if he wasn’t then he should have been.



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