At the dentist's again

I arrived for my appointment five minutes early. As it was an 11am appointment, I assumed they would be on time, that not enough time had elapsed since the surgery opened at 9 for things to have fallen behind. How wrong I was.
There is nothing worse than having worked oneself up to having to endure something nasty, and then, having mentally primed oneself, being made to sit... and sit.... for over half an hour, getting more and more nervous, in a room full of the less fortunate of the human species. A smelly man with a nauseating catarrh problem; an elderly lady with a beard, Alzheimers and two carers, to whom she turned her bemused face at intervals and asked, "Where am I? Am I at the doctors?" "No, you're at the dentist's." "Oh. What am I at the doctor's for?" "No, the doctor is next week. This is the dentist's." "Oh. Where am I?" Another enormous snotty snort from the care in the community character, who then mopped his glutinous coat with a rasta-striped handkerchief.
Three people who had arrived after me got called before me. Then at last it was my turn. "Which teeth was it?" asked the dentist, who had last seen me a fortnight ago. (Where am I? Am I at the doctor's?)
The massive needle went in. Any second now, it would appear out of the back of my skull like an acupuncture needle in reverse. "Try to relax," said the dentist. Relax? Would you tell the man having the last puff of his cigarette before the firing squad do their stuff, to relax? Or the miscreant strapped to the eletric chair? No, he'd have been given a sedative first. I had had no sedative. I hadn't even dared drink a cup of tea for fear of feeling a desperate need to go to the loo in mid-drilling session.
At last, the ten foot long needle was slowly withdrawn. But my trials weren't over yet. With glee sparkling in his brown eyes, the dentist announced, "And now I will give you an injection in your bottom jaw, for the other filling." At this stage, I would happily have had a large jab of Novocaine in my bottom.
I bore the drilling and filling stoically and even thanked the dentist for having dealt me the mininum of pain. It was ten minutes later, one floor up, sitting in the hygienist's chair that I cracked. She used a high-speed water jet between each tortured tooth. That really hurt. I had had more than human nerves could bear, so I staggered out in daze, found myself in a glossy department store and paid £129 for a leopard print mac. Well, it was a Windsmoor and had been reduced from double that price. Don't tell Mr Grumpy. He thinks it was £29. And told me it was cheap at half the price.
Now that the injections have at last worn off and I have had two coffees, some mashed banana and yogurt, a square of chocolate melted slowly beneath my tongue, two arnica tablets which I later discovered had expired in 2001, and a paracetamol, I have finally rediscovered my dress sense and remembered that I think animal print clothes are terminally naff. Oh well. Another garment that will have to be taken back. I am amassing a little series of bags all the way down Mr G's hallway. Soon, I fear that I, too, shall be in a bag in his hallway, like the time an old boyfriend threw me, my cat (in a bag) and my telly (on a stand) out into the rain on a wet night in November. But that's another story...
PS The photo is of the very mac. I found it on the Windsmoor sale site. Now, is it too dreadful? Is it really...?