I’m in agony.
I’m in agony. Toothache. Upper left molar. The pain is shooting up the side of my face and stabbing through my left eye socket. On the plus side, the world is suddenly less complex. My idea of future happiness has been reduced to nothing more ambitious than a pain-free existence. No longer has it anything to do with ameliorating the suffering of others. If a genie made me choose right now between his making the pain go away and making poverty history, I’d probably have to think about it.Â
Two years ago I went to the dentist for the first time in years. She was appalled; I had galloping gum disease, she said. To cure it was going to take time and effort and cost a considerable amount of money, she said. I was going to have to spend more time in future brushing my teeth. I was also going to have to learn how to floss. And I was going to have to try to stop smoking and change my diet.Â
How much money exactly? I said. She named a figure which, if I’d submitted it as a closed bid, would have secured the 2012 Olympic games for our village. It might sound a lot of money, she said, but it would be worth it. For, if I neglected my teeth any longer, I was looking at an early death from a coronary brought on by galloping gum disease. It was a straight choice, she said, so which was it to be?Â
I meekly chose life and got my chequebook out. For nine months I was in the dentist’s chair so often and for such long periods that she suggested I brought in my own CDs to listen to. (I wouldn’t recommend having a back tooth hollowed out with a high-speed drill while listening to Leonard Cohen’s New Skin for the Old Ceremony. That was a mistake. But Hound Dog Taylor and the House Rockers live at Joe’s Place is a terrific accompaniment to having a rotten tooth levered out.)Â
She did a brilliant job. After having almost my entire gob excavated, I finished up with a set of gnashers as handsomely renovated as the façade of St Pancras. They don’t wobble about like they used to. My face might shrivel with age, my hair fall out, and my gums recede, but my expensively renovated teeth will probably remain fastened to my skull as long as young Tutankhamun’s.
When she’d finished all that she’d set out to do, she placed me in the tanned, capable hands of the dental hygienist for polishing and indoctrination. From now on it was up to me to knuckle under and conform to the cleaning regime laid down by this attractive blonde in the sky-blue smock and matching Crocs.
I visit the hygenist about once every three months. She speaks to me as if I’m an anxious five-year-old. I can see that for some people lying helplessly in a dentist’s chair with a bib on, and being spoken to as if you are an anxious five-year-old by an attractive blonde wearing a mask, might be a dream come true. But I resent it.Â
‘And, Jeremy, would you mind popping these on for me!’ she’ll say, passing me a pair of goggles. ‘There you go! Lovely! Thank you very much for doing that for me, Jeremy! Now open wide and let’s have a little look. And…relax!’
She’ll root around with her little spiked probe for a few seconds, and then she’ll say, ‘You’ve been a naughty boy again, haven’t you? You’ve been smoking, haven’t you? And do you remember the little promise you made to me last time? Shall I remind you? I’ve got to say it, Jeremy, I feel let down, really I do. But most of all, Jeremy, you’ve let you yourself down.’Â
When I saw her last month, she encountered tobacco stains again. These took so long to remove there was no time left for the remedial deep cleaning. So I had to make another appointment, which meant another 50 quid spent on having my teeth cleaned.
Now for the last two months I’ve had to give literally all my money to a polite man at the Inland Revenue whose patience has finally run out. When I turned up a fortnight later for the deep-cleaning treatment, I paid the receptionist afterwards with the last £50 I had in the world. And as usual I paid up with a merry chuckle as though I was absolutely rolling in it, while inside I was caving in at the waste of money.
And now this. If this pain goes on for much longer, I think it’s going to have to be do-it-yourself dentistry with the pliers.
Comments