Poking and Prodding
It was time for my six monthly visit to the dentist a few days ago.
The build up of coffee, tea and red wine was about to be attacked with vicious instruments of torture.
You can count on tannins to dullen your smile. Not that my smile it up to much.
Unlike most Californians my teeth are quirkily crooked, a sure mark of a Brit while away. I am told that braces are now fashionable, irrespective of need. I think I will let someone else play a James Bond baddie.
The check up before the dreaded hygienist is normally fine. A bit of casual poking about, the dentist rudely speaking in a strange private code to the assistant, ensuring that more of the white cliffs are not about to fall into the sea. Then back to the waiting room, surrounded by 1980's Vogue magazines and edgy looking people.
The hygienist is more often than not a woman. Attractive, despite the blue operating garb, with a pleasant friendly manner.
Don't be fooled by this facade.
As soon as the chitchat is over you are strapped to a chair and given a very uncool pair of specs to wear that make you look like a Brains from Thunderbirds. Self confidence destroyed, the hygienist begins her dark work.
The worst phase is the cleaning. Your teeth feel like an old road being parted from its of tarmac with heavy machinery operated by a rum bunch of blind lackeys. A fine spray of debris flies out of your mouth with a vacuum sucking the ever increasing reservoir within. Gurgling and swirling noises add to this unhappy dance. Palms get very sweaty, and hands are tightly clasped together. The process is pretty much painless, but its the not knowing that causes the nerves.
A quick polish, rinse, and run away as fast as possible, suddenly realising that you are still wearing those really uncool specs.
The build up of coffee, tea and red wine was about to be attacked with vicious instruments of torture.
You can count on tannins to dullen your smile. Not that my smile it up to much.
Unlike most Californians my teeth are quirkily crooked, a sure mark of a Brit while away. I am told that braces are now fashionable, irrespective of need. I think I will let someone else play a James Bond baddie.
The check up before the dreaded hygienist is normally fine. A bit of casual poking about, the dentist rudely speaking in a strange private code to the assistant, ensuring that more of the white cliffs are not about to fall into the sea. Then back to the waiting room, surrounded by 1980's Vogue magazines and edgy looking people.
The hygienist is more often than not a woman. Attractive, despite the blue operating garb, with a pleasant friendly manner.
Don't be fooled by this facade.
As soon as the chitchat is over you are strapped to a chair and given a very uncool pair of specs to wear that make you look like a Brains from Thunderbirds. Self confidence destroyed, the hygienist begins her dark work.
The worst phase is the cleaning. Your teeth feel like an old road being parted from its of tarmac with heavy machinery operated by a rum bunch of blind lackeys. A fine spray of debris flies out of your mouth with a vacuum sucking the ever increasing reservoir within. Gurgling and swirling noises add to this unhappy dance. Palms get very sweaty, and hands are tightly clasped together. The process is pretty much painless, but its the not knowing that causes the nerves.
A quick polish, rinse, and run away as fast as possible, suddenly realising that you are still wearing those really uncool specs.
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