Last week, feeling weak and wimpish and suffering from the dreaded jeans allergy, I put off my appointment for the hygienist and a check-up but this week there was no escape short of a total tube strike or me being abducted by aliens.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong but I can't imagine anyone actually enjoying the scraping, jabbing, palate-tormenting torture that such a visit entails, though maybe there is the odd (very odd) man who gets a kinky kick out of having a girl like the pretty, slender, blonde Polish lass I had today pressing close, bending over him and fixing him with a baby-blue stare over the surgical mask. Today, I had to add drowning to the torture. The water jet machine wasn't working properly ("This is really bad equipment. I cannot work with such equipment. I think I will go home," she hissed through pursed lips, then made me promise not to tell the dentist that she'd complained) and squirted water over my face, up my nose and down my neck. On both sides, too. I was well and truly drenched.
In a fury, she abandoned the water jet for the pick and shovel method and, in a fury, skewered me into submission, ignoring the strangled 'ows' and the hand held up in submission. Then it was her turn to diss me. I was missing places with the floss, I wasn't cleaning the inside backs of the teeth properly. I crawled out of there feeling like a naughty child... only be informed by the dentist that my awful, dingy teeth that are held together by thirty-year-old amalgum were looking good and I was obviously looking after them well. Hygienist nul points, moi un point! Jolly bon!
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