Yesterday I reflected on the nature of pain. Rachel’s a hygienist and, no doubt at all, her grinding, poking and scratching hurts. But how much? The worst pain I ever felt was a bout of sciatica, closely followed by the aftermath of dislocating my shoulder and cracking the scapula while ski-ing. Being de-plaqued wasn’t in that league and, in any case, the pain was different. Having to remain passive (Bad form, old man, to wriggle.) was one difference. Another was the inescapable belief that the pain could get worse at any moment. That Rachel’s wretched ironmongery would break through the tooth, mince up the nerve and send me into outer space.
Interesting, that. Apprehension and pain are, in effect, the same sensation.
Afterwards I was slapped on the wrist for not using an electric toothbrush. It’s the rotary motion that counts. Mrs BB has one so I bought my own brush-head at Tesco. The brush motor has a two-minute timer to keep you at it and I have to say two minutes is close to eternity.
Before she went electrical Mrs BB – whose views on dentistry constitute the most private and irrational aspect of her life I’m aware of – used to sing a song in her head which lasted exactly two minutes. A mantra to keep Rachel at bay. Emerging this morning from my little Calvary in the en suite I asked Mrs BB what the song was. She refused to say. I wasn’t entirely surprised.
Yesterday included a check-up by the real dentist, a willowy blonde whose friendliness is a bit too synthetic. She felt my lymph glands and asked me to do suggestive things with my tongue. But there is no eroticism in the dentist’s chair.
