The King’s Dentist lives down the road from us. His other title, so my early morning walking friends tell me, is the Royal Flosser. His job is to accompany the King on all his trips so that he’s on hand should there be a sudden royal dental crisis. On one hand, it sounds exotic, but I’m guessing it’s also pretty boring. A pack-a-good-book sort of job.
And talking of crises and dentists, I’ve my own story to tell, but there’s no royal dentist in my narrative. Actually, it’s really a story in three parts, or if you like three separate dental crises spread over several years.
To sort my first crisis out, I visited a dentist recommended by a medical clinic near where I worked. I’ll call him Mr Grumpy Scottish Dentist. I had misgivings from the moment I walked into his clinic. Firstly, the place was undeniably grubby. There was a thin sheen of dust over every surface. I could have written my name along the window sill. Minutes later, when I was prostrate in the chair, his nurse dropped an instrument on the floor, then picked it up and handed it across to him. (He was left-handed and this seemed to complicate matters enormously.) At this point, Mr Grumpy Scottish Dentist tore strips off her. It was unpleasant and unprofessional. I left soon afterwards with absolutely no intention of returning.