I went for a check-up the other day. I was lying back in the chair, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere you always get when anticipating discomfort and pain, and after my teeth had been examined, the dentist took it upon himself to give me a lecture on how to look after my teeth better. I let it wash over me like pink mouthwash. But then I had to see the hygienist. She (they always seem to be women – why is that?) had a poke around, and then asked how many cigarettes I smoked each day. Through a mouthful of her latex-covered fingers, I announced that not only did I never inhale, I also never lit-up; I have never smoked. A momentary silence.
‘Alcohol units per week?’ she enquired, in what sounded like an accusation. Now, I already think that the introduction of alcohol units as a way of measuring your consumption is a government-sponsored way of taking all the fun out of one of the few pleasures left in life. Every time I open my mouth to take another sip of the smoky heaven that is Laphroaig, I think of the health secretary and it spoils my evening. ‘You do drink?’ she said. I mumbled something about 21, knowing that’s below the recommended daily allowance. ‘Mmmmm,’ she replied. Another, longer, silence.
‘A coffee drinker, then?’ she enquired. I nodded, and mentioned espresso. Although I could only see her eyes, and only dimly through both my safety goggles and hers, I could see she was pleased to have discovered my dirty, little, teeth-staining secret. Would she reach for the intercom to announce my filthy addiction to her colleagues and the other orally-disgusting customers sitting in the waiting room? Or perhaps she would wait until she and her co-workers were down at the spa, sipping mineral water, and she would shock them ‘..and then he told me he drank coffee...espresso!’, and some of the younger listeners might actually faint with horror.
‘Coffee, eh? I thought so,’ she smiled. I could only imagine she was smiling because, of course, my mouth was so foul that she was wearing protective sheeting around her lower face. She picked up a probe from her toolbox, and as she began I arched my back so that only my heels and the crown of my head touched the chair. Some time later, with the enamel gouged from my teeth, I lowered my buttocks back onto her recliner, and she began a lecture about the benefits of flossing, demonstrating on a little dental model. With the aid of a mirror held to my face by her able assistant, I was encouraged to practise on myself. She then informed me that I was to return in a few weeks so she could see how I had been getting along with my new dental-hygiene regimen.
What if everyone behaved like dentists? Imagine if you went to buy a new pair of trousers and after being made to stand awkwardly whilst you and your current trousers were minutely examined, you would then receive a lecture on how to wear the new trousers correctly; on how to avoid unpleasant places to sit; on how, because of your disgusting lifestyle, your trousers were prone to damage from revolting stains, and that you should therefore change your lifestyle to ensure trouser-longevity. And if you happened to look above your head during this extensive lecture, you would be faced with a large, grinning, pink elephant with immaculate trousers holding a lint removal roller in his trunk. Finally, you would then be asked to pop back into the store in a few weeks to check that you were adhering to these sartorial guidelines.
Having got through the dental ordeal, I went straight to the café and ordered a large espresso.
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