The Voyage to the Driller from Dubai

First thing this morning I was sitting in the waiting room of my dental surgery, nonchalantly swinging my sunglasses around by the chord which pulls snug to keep them in their pouch. I was trying to see if I could ease my nervousness and apprehension by trying to appear as cool and collected as possible to the ladies on the phones in reception. I realised I was just being distracting and placed my sunglasses on my lap instead of pointlessly orbiting them around my finger.

Glancing at the neat piles of magazines on the low circular table in the center of the room, I made note that they hadn’t changed from the previous time I had been there – over a month ago. It reminded me of an account by my old mate Doddo, regarding one of his infrequent trips to the dentist; “Is it just me or does every doctors/dentists waiting area have magazines from the pre lunar landing period?” (Go and read Doddo’s tale before finishing this, if you like – he’s a far funnier writer than me – I can wait around here until you get back…)

As I thought of that story, and of other amusing anecdotes from Doddo, I completely forgot where I was – which helped ease the nerves until Miss Miserable Hygienist called my name from the stairway. Damn, it wasn’t the nice blonde girl who always smiles in a friendly way, despite knowing you’re usually there for the most unpleasant experience you’re going to have that day. Miss Miserable Hygienist just makes things worse – I’m not sure why, she’s just like a good vibe vacuum, making sure you’re under no illusions that this is going to be a fun and friendly experience.

My dentist is an indian lady (Edit : hence the misguided title of this entry – I couldn’t think of a place in india that provided the necessary alliteration), with a nice neutral accent and a very comforting tone. She always seems pleased to see me, which is a bit of a shame as I’m usually dreading seeing her – mostly due to an awful experience with a terrible dentist I had in the mid–ninties, whose failed attempts at fillings were being replaced on this day. Once on the chair I flinched as she was giving me the injection, and she asked if I was okay. “Well… yeah, sort of – it’s just not my favourite thing.” I explained, immediately feeling stupid for saying anything other than “Yes, fine thanks.” in a strong manly tone that would suggest I could take the next half hour of treatment without the need for any pain killing injection.

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