For some time now, my mouth has been the centre of my life. No, madam, I do not refer to shouting the odds nor yet yabbering. I do not yabber. Indeed, I trust my obituary will say: “However, despite these many shortcomings, he did not yabber.”
No, I’ve had toothache and have been back to the dentist no fewer than six times. Part of a tooth and associated filling fell out ages ago, and it’s been the devil of a job replacing them.
A crown was advised. Casts were made and sent to the lab but the resultant crowns never fitted. It was a dental mystery which exercised the finest orthodontical minds in the practice.
In the end, it was reckoned the lab was building up a regular sized tooth when the one that partially disintegrated must have been irregular or otherwise peculiar.
Eventually, we got one crown whittled down so that, once more, I could clack my pegs together comfortably. But now one side of my mooth looks like a metal scrapyard.
I hadn’t realised there would be so much. At one stage in my irritating life, I concluded that all my problems were caused by the amount of mercury in my gub from fillings.
That theory seems to have died a death but, even for cosmetic reasons, I wish I could have had one of the dearer white materials put in.
Dentistry is dastardly when it comes to the NHS. No one understands why it’s on the NHS but you still have to pay for it. Something to do with the settlement in 1945, when the NHS was created, and some kind of partial opt-out was afforded the mouth manglers.
All the same, one could not doubt the professionalism of the practitioners of such a noble profession. It’s detailed work, with a frequent risk of hitting a nerve and causing the patient to leap hither and, in extreme cases, yon.
I’d always thought it odd that my dad’s generation, of men at any rate, often opted to have all their teeth out in middle age. But I guess it took all the hassle out of your mouth and, at least when the dentures were in, didn’t look as bad as a cakehole full of fillings.
Recently, online, I came across a photograph of First World War Russian soldiers having dentistry in the trenches. It looked diabolical. Survivors, with bandages looped over their heads and under their chins, were clearly in agony, as was the poor chap being worked on with pliers.
I should say I came across this photograph completely by chance. I didn’t put in a search for “Russian First World War soldiers in agony from dentistry”.
Apart from the actual dentistry, I quite enjoyed my appointments in this – [looks at watch] – the 21st century. The surgery was a pleasant 15-minute walk away, situated in a decent old villa with high ceilings and a waiting room stocked with variably interesting and informative magazines.
I liked to make myself at home there, sipping a small vial of sherry and eating the cream buns that I’d brought.
However, I’m glad I won’t have to go back. I might just go past it on a pleasant walk, look over at the dignified villa and think: “Thank goodness that’s all over.”
