I have a throbbing tooth. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else. It’s impossible to ignore. It’s not hot-cold or sweet-sour sensitive, it’s pounding painfully.
I remember dentists semi-fondly from my childhood. An outing to Escourt was rather exciting. There they had two brand name supermarkets and a couple of clothes shops, whereas we only had one which always seemed to be a few seasons behind. Escourt had a hospital, the dentist and the drive in. It was a regular megalopolis.
If one person in our household needed to go to the dentist, we’d all have to go. That was just the way it worked. We’d inevitably go shopping, then get a chocolate or milkshake to cheer us up before going to the dentist. When we arrived we’d head straight into his garden (he had his rooms next door to his house) we’d haul out our toothpaste and toothbrushes and brush away the offending sugar at the outside tap, then in we’d trot, minty-breathed and guilt free.
I’m ready now. If the pain hasn’t gone by tomorrow I’m going to request Tom and Jerry. It's similar to nature programmes except the victim pops back to life in a nanosecond.