dentist

The visit to the dentist yesterday was quite a breezy affair; I arrived in plenty of time having found myself there in record time from work. Unfortunately on the way over I noticed the fucking Triumph was playing up, and it was so good yesterday too. It’s something with the electrics; it keeps cutting out which isn’t only annoying it has the potential to be very costly (not to mention dangerous) as its one of the areas I’m least competent with and as the fault is intermittent I don’t know where to start…

I’d already made myself very unpopular with one of the receptionists at the dentists following the shouting incident earlier in the week. There were three of them in the office, all as cold as the next so I was clueless as to which one I’d pissed off. Waiting there surrounded by piles of cheap magazines I was partially saved by a copy of Esquire, mutton dressed as lamb for 20 something’s aspiring to the likes of David Beckham, but at least it had the odd bit of vaguely readable editorial, not of note you’ll understand, just of circumstance.

One of the receptionists broke free of her office and came round to get something from the cupboard, she wasn’t much to look at but her bum distracted me momentarily so I filled my boots for a bit longer than I should. Unfortunately after my eyeful I looked up to notice another of the receptionists had busted me. She flashed me a withering brief smile. I sank into my chair.

After 10 mins I was led to a dentist chair. Nothing changes; the smell, features and innate fear were all present and correct. The dentist was already scrubbed up and good to go. I sat in the fucking chair, which zizzed into horizontal position with alarming speed. Before I’d a chance to say a word my mouth was prized open with latex clad digits and in he went with the spike, prodding at my enamel and updating the assistant with information that included words such as ‘okay’ and ‘missing’. I was informed that my teeth, despite being free of decay, were filthy and I was ordered to make a £45 appointment to visit the hygienist, after which he suggested I fork out a further £399 for a single hour long teeth whitening session.

My Friend (with Tits) had mentioned the colour of my buttery teeth a few weeks ago so, being skint but shit with the readies, agreed to the treatment on the spot. I will be making an appointment tomorrow for next week. ‘A fool and his money are soon partied’ my dad had told me when I was little. He’s quite right of course.

This morning I had to go to the fucking dentist again to visit the Hygenist. I knew making the appointment for 9.30am was risky because I wasn’t quite sure what condition I’d be in from the Thursday night. Last night I met Frank in the local at 7-ish and we discussed the matters of the day whilst drinking ‘Old Cocky’, only 4.5 % alcohol but, as far we were concerned after 3 pints, raw opium. I wobbled home via the shops to grab some broccoli, sausages, onion rings and wine, returned to the flat and made supper in the kitchen watching House, which despite being American tosh is fucking ace.

I spurned the wine in favour of a couple of cans of lager and following the snooker hit the hay before 1pm. When I woke this morning my head was certainly clearer than it would’ve been if I’d touched the wine but I was still feeling a little nunky. I took my time dressing, spent a good while on the toilet taking a Sunday-shit with the results of the local elections to accompany my ablutions on the radio, got my bike gear on and left.

The bike started with some prompting, it’s not running without wrist assistance immediately after starting but we all got there with minutes to spare.

I crept into the surgery, humbled by early morning malaise. I weakly smiled at the receptionist who returned the favour with the same naff enthusiasm. After a while I was led to the dentist chair by a very bubbly short rotund blonde who asked a few questions about my general health prior to beginning the awful treatment. She was teeth obsessed, within the space of 2 minutes had recommended a jet cleaning system, mouthwashes, flosses, little cocktail stick brushes and then spent the entire procedure debating the pros and cons of manual brushing over electric and vice versa. I lay back and gurgled as she shoved various whining machines painfully into the intimate areas of my gaping maw. It was awful but the subsequent results were arguably worth it.

Later today I’m going to make the appointment to have the whitening procedure but have yet to decide which one specifically, either way it’s going to cost hundreds of pounds that I don’t readily have, but it has to be done.

Todays’ offing, keeping up the with the recent theme of women in rawk, I’ve selected the solo effort of one of the members of Hole. She’s lovely, despite being touched with the hand of ginge.

(I fucking would)