The Dentist

The last time I visited a dentist he examined my teeth (well, duh) and announced that there wasn't a lot of room for my growing wisdom teeth, and I should probably have those out the next time I visited.

That was twenty three years ago.

In my defence, it turns out that there was almost enough room for my wisdom teeth. Almost.

My perfectly straight bottom teeth now have a slight snaggle to them, but that sort of stuff just adds character. Right?

Lucky for me I grew up in a suburb that embraced fluoridated water, and I haven't had any problems that necessitated a visit before now.

Throughout all the visits of my young years the worst thing that ever happened was that I received one small filling. And when I say small, I mean the dentist didn't even offer me pain relief because it was over before I even knew it was happening.

Usually I wouldn't bring up dentists, because I don't think about them that often. Absence has not made the heart grow fonder. But tonight dentists are on my mind.

My tooth is very sore.

That sounds a bit weak compared to what I'm experiencing.

Very, very sore. Indeed

My tongue keeps going for an exploratory journey to see what's happening in sore toothland, and then snapping back to the front when it finds out that it's still a pain swamp back there.

The edge of my tooth is so rough that I've even started to consider that I may have broken it somehow. Between the soft cheese and the chicken I'm not sure what it found to break itself on, but I'm not thrilled at the direction my mouth is going.

There is a dentist on the corner. I always cross the street just before I have to walk past it because superstition.

Another day or two and I may just have to book myself a visit.

No more than a month or two, anyway.