I have been visiting the dentist over the last six months. Even after three or four visits, I still find myself white knuckled, clutching the armrests of the chair. It's not that I'm scared of dentists, but someone sticking a needle into the back of my jaw is not my favourite pastime. I know it's necessary. I know it would hurt like hell without it. Logically I should accept it and try and relax."Let me know if it hurts."
"OK." You'll know, I think as I imagine smacking him round the head. Obviously I never have. Instead I find myself squeezing the chair into submission and then, realising what I'm doing, force myself to relax, cross my wrists and control my breathing. Soon it's all over. Too soon. I've been watching an episode of "Lost" on the flat screen TV bolted to the ceiling.
It makes me think how things have changed since my first dentist in the mid nineteen-sixties. He was a pleasant, good natured chap. He wore glasse like goggles, stank of cigarettes and had stained, brown teeth. The only entertainment in his surgery was the airline that he would let children play with, alternately whistling and farting depending on the thumb pressure applied.
I think now I'd prefer to watch "Lost", but as a kid I really enjoyed the screeching noises the airline made.
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