Dentist

This blog entry is brought to you in association with Scaredycats…

Tomorrow morning I’m going to the dentist. I’m more frightened of these drilling ogres than Wayne Rooney is of the Sunday papers. I haven’t been to one for five years. I think I inherited this blind terror from my mother. I’d rather go to a ten hour Mick Hucknall concert than sit in a chair while having the insides of my mouth poked with pokey things.

So why now? Well, unfortunately an old filling that I had when I was a child has partly fallen out. I was chewing some gum (that’s Wrigley’s as opposed to my actual gums – Jesus, that would have prompted an earlier visit) when the minty goodness suddenly changed to a more… how do I describe it?… crunchy taste. Oh dear.

Even this wouldn’t usually prompt me to dare to visit a dentist until extreme pain set in (it hasn’t yet, thank God, it’s just mildly uncomfortable), but given that I’m going on holiday in just under two and a half weeks, I’m paranoid about my mouth suddenly deciding it wants to be on fire in Grenada. Given the choice, I’d rather trust myself to an NHS dentist than the healthcare system of a Caribbean island. Their pain merchants may be 100% fine, above board and brilliant, I don’t know – I’d just rather not take the chance.

So off I go to certain death. Goodbye, cruel world. If there’s no blog entry tomorrow, you’ll know that I didn’t survive. If I get a wink of sleep tonight, it’ll be a bloody miracle.

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