My first day of retirement and already I'm stressed. Partly because I can't find a musician for prison on Sunday but mainly because I had to go to the dentist for a filling.
I hate going to the dentist. Even though I haven't been hurt by one since I was a child I still dread even check-ups, so a filling turns me into a jibbering wreck. Not helped when the dentist says, 'I will drill out the infection and old filling and then fill it again. It's only little.'
'So I'm not having an injection?'
'No, you don't need it.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes. If it hurts tell me.' (It's a bit flipping late then.)
Well, it didn't hurt and I remember now the last time I had a filling it was without an injection and that didn't hurt either. But I did whimper when she drilled off the tartar from the back of my front teeth.
It's not the pain so much - well, yes, of course it is - but lying back helpless, with hands and metal instruments stuck in your mouth, the fact you can't swallow - which of course you want to do far more than is normal - and the expectation of pain. Ah, well, all over now until the next old filling falls out.
My gran didn't go to the dentist until she was old. (On reflection she was probably in her sixties, and so was a mere youth.) I recall the time she needed a filling or possibly a tooth out. The dentist gave her an injection then told her to sit in the waiting room until it had taken effect. She walked out of the surgery, straight past the waiting room and out through the front door. She'd had enough. I don't know if she ever went back and had the treatment; that would have been a less interesting story.
Now I feel justified in blogging and reading until it's time for circuit training.