From: Not_Al_Crawford@ed.ac.uk (Not Al Crawford)
Newsgroups: alt.peeves
Subject: Dentishtry Peevesh
Date: 25 Aug 92 16:40:18 GMT
Reply-To: Not_Al_Crawford@ed.ac.uk (Not Al Crawford)
Organization: Penicuik People's Revolutionary Sheepdog Liberation Front

Over the past week or so, my fiancee has been harassing me somewhat about
the fact that I've not been to the dentists in about six years. Although
somewhat peeved at her new found enthusiasm for my dental hygiene (since it
only reared it's head once her *own* checkup was out the way) I eventually
conceded that perhaps I *should* begin contemplating to make arrangements
of a dental nature.

The six year gap since my last checkup was easily explained - the first
three years were spent ignoring "You should really come for a checkup"
letters with a cry of "But my teeth have been *fine* since my last checkup"
while the second three were spent going "Argh, I've not been to the
dentists in over *three years* and if I do go he'll remove *all my teeth*
at once." Even severely chipping a tooth late last year didn't prompt any
action, since I was quite sure that any pain the chipped tooth would give
me would in no way be equal to the pain, both physical and financial, that
the inevitable crowning of it would induce.

However, she eventually convinced me that I really should get at least a
checkup. I wasn't that sure it'd be possible for me to get one (on the NHS
at least), since it was quite likely my name would have been taken off
their records after six years and that given the way dentists are currently
getting rather bolshy with regard to taking NHS patients, I might not get
taken on again unless I went private.

So, with this assorted gloom and the cheerful thought that even if I *did*
get an appointment it would probably be at least a month or two before I'd
actually get seen so at least I'd have a temporary reprieve, I wandered
into the surgery at 9am this morning to see about making an appointment.

I got a shock. While I *had* been taken off their records, there was *no*
problem with adding me back as an NHS patient and would I like an
appointment at 2.50pm that very day?

Ummm. Well, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, not even a horse
that is liable to kick you in the crotch and run off with your wallet, I
took the appointment despite it falling right in the middle of the day and
meaning I'd be unlikely to get *any* work done today. It was a move I would
quickly come to regret.

At 2.50pm I turned up, succeeded in filling in all the little medical
condition boxes on the release form the wrong way round (if I'd been
suffering from all the afflictions I ticked the "Yes" box for, I'd be dead)
and made my way with considerable trepidation into the surgery.

I'd somehow managed to get exactly the same dentist as had given me my
*last* checkup six years ago. Ordinarily a cheerful individual, and
particularly good with kiddies (he'd been my dentist since I was about
eight) he fixed me with that particular steely gaze that only a dentist
confronting a patient who has been AWOL for six years can produce.

A cold, clinical smile crossed his face as I was strapped into the chair
which reclined in a decidedly menacing manner more worthy of the sort of
chair they strap James Bond into before attempting to remove his wedding
tackle with a laser beam. His assistant was apparently busy blunting all
the drill bits to get them *just right*. His generally SMERSH-like
demeanour seemed strangely appropriate, considering I was fully expecting
to have to make an appointment for the sort of treatment that would leave
me looking like a smaller, shabbier, Scottisher version of Jaws.

Slowly, slowly the funny pokey metal thing dentists use probed its way
around my mouth. He'd already seen the chipped tooth and had, in a voice
more normally associated with the sort of person who sits, face unseen, and
strokes a fluffy white cat while discussing his latest plan to blow up the
entire world, said "I think we'll have to get you to come back to have that
ground down." Then, just as I thought that was all I was going to need, the
funny pokey metal thing probed a little too deeply in the wrong place and I
visibly tensed as pain shot through my jaw. "Oh, we seem to have found a
rather large cavity here. Oh dear oh dear." ("I'm afraid we're going to
have to feed you to the alligators, Mr Bond.")

However, it was then that I remembered one of the main reasons I didn't
like this dentist. Had he really been a Bond villain, Sean Connery would
now be fish-food by now since this man was the dental equivalent of the
SPECTRE boss who *never* shows you where the big red button marked
"Self-Destruct" is. He had eased me into a false sense of security as I
pondered whether I could, over the time between now and my appointment to
have the tooth filled, rediscover the tolerance to pain that I'd had as a
child (as a kid I always used to refuse local anaesthetics,preferring the
brief pain of the treatment to the lingering annoyance of the anaesthetic).

I was not to be given the choice though. With dervish like speed the
dentist whirled and with a cry of "Well, it won't take long so let's just
do it *now*! Bwahahahahaha!" plunged something sharp and metallic into my
gum. As he then proceeded to polish my teeth and grind down the chipped
one, I began to feel a certain lack of sensation in the right side of my
face. My suspicions of just what the metallic instrument had been were
confirmed when, upon attempting to speak, my words came out in a manner
more befitting of Sylvester The Cat. "Ish that it?" I shpluttered, "or ish
there more to come?" The evil grin which crossed his face answered my
question for me and slowly the drill hove into view. Paralysed by the local
anaesthetic, I slumped back in the chair.

It was a very large, impressive drill. Lots of gleaming chrome and flashing
lights suggested that here was a drill that had *no* self-destruct button,
and that would, given the opportunity, take over the world without any need
of an arch-villain to operate it. Still, at least it didn't have any of
those big donut things that light up in sequence along the barrel. As the
drill moved into position, I realised that, no, I was not going to be saved
by hundreds of Japanese ninjas sliding down into the dentist's surgery on
ropes, so I lay back and awaited my grisly fate.

The tooth was duly drilled. The pain was, it must be said, negligible but
now I must suffer the humiliation of talking like a Warner Bros cartoon
character, apparently for the rest of my natural life. My fiancee now has a
partner with no cavities, but one who wil spray her with saliva every time
he speaks in her direction. Only she may decide if it was worth it.

As for the real pain i.e. the damage to my wallet, that was surprisingly
small, with the entire treatment costing only #22. Not cheap, perhaps, when
you consider that the last time I had a checkup you could sail twice round
the world on the Queen Mary and still have change from a shilling, but not
exactly the US national debt either.

BonusPeeve: My dentist also informed me that those pre-brushing rinses
they're forever advertising on TV are a complete waste of time and that the
same results can be obtained just by brushing properly. Acti-Brush? Still
working? Hah! Well, I suppose it's difficult for it *not* to be still
working if it doesn't, in fact, do any good in the first place.

--
		Not Al Crawford - Not_Al_Crawford@ed.ac.uk
      "Brothers, sisters, we don't need this fascist sheepdog thang"