The Voyage to the Driller from Dubai

Journal

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.

That last bit would have been a great big lie, though – even if it wasn’t the worst half hour I’ve had in the dentist chair, there were a few “woah… Woah… WOAH!” moments when she was drilling so far into my tooth that it seemed like it would be easier to go in via my arse than to force my jaw any further apart.

When it was all over, I failed to notice that the half hour of having my head clenched between my dentists’ left forearm and her ample left breast had shaped my hair into the kind of giant quiff that Elvis would have been proud of. I managed to wander down into the now full waiting room, pay for my treatment at reception, and walk most of the way back to the car before spotting the state of my hair in my reflection in a shop window.

“Phuck shake!” I slurred to myself through my numb face, before making a futile attempt to flatten it down. Back in the car with a proper mirror, I realised the full extent of the hair–larity – as is the way of things when I wake up in the morning, there was no way my hair was going to calm down without dunking my head in some water. I decided just to brave it out and tell whoever commented on it that I was trying out something new.

The rest of the day was spent somewhere between feeling numb and feeling sore from all the jaw stretching that went on. I have another appointment next Tuesday morning too, although upon mirror assisted inspection I see that she’s done two fillings today rather than the one this week, one next week scenario that had been suggested when I made the appointments. Unless of course there’s something more in store for me, although I hope not. Looks like she’s done a good job, though – may these new fangled bonded fillings last longer than the botch jobs they replaced.