The waiting room walls are awash with old dog eared posters giving dental advice and oral hygiene tips, but judging by the miserable clientele, this information has either been ignored or received too late. An unidentifiable medical smell wafts into the room when the creaky wooden door is opened and closed. Patients sit upright in silence waiting tensely for their name to be called. Magazine and toys remain untouched. None of this does anything to boost my confidence that I’m in the right place as the pain takes full hold.
My name is called. I’m shown into a small square room which is posing as a consulting room or is it an operating theatre? The room is sparse with literally only the antiquated black dental chair with white adjoining sink. Green and cream Victorian utilitarian tiles cover all the walls and there is a single central light bulb under a metal shade offering feeble illumination. I wonder briefly if the furnishings could speak what stories they would tell.
A slightly spotty but pleasant school boy in a white coat and tie appears and asks me to open my mouth. He doesn’t really need to do this as my jaw has already dropped open far wider than normal while my brain gets into gear and realises the lad is, in fact, the dental student attending me. He can’t be more than nineteen, first year student probably. The same age of first taste freedom, parties, hangovers, drugs, sex and irresponsibility. Yes, I’m in agony…. BUT.
I’m numbed both physically and mentally. A dazzling light bears down on my face and cold grey tools of torture are noisily laid out casually under my nose. I’m now quite feverish and briefly weigh up whether I’m in a position to express my concern when a professor appears at my side as if in a magic show. That four letter prefix on his name badge enables me at last to relax. Then suddenly he heads for the door turning briefly to the student as he does so saying, “Yes, that’s fine, I’m just upstairs if you need me.”
