Dear Dentist*

Torn between new magazines
And the wall-mounted TV screen,
I started to appreciate
The challenge you face as a focus of hate…
Your impeccably stylish waiting room
Small comfort in this place of doom
Where highly trained professionals
Attend with care to all things dental;
Those childhood fears thought long abated
Unwittingly instantly recreated,
With even the most moderate souls
Clinging on to self-control
While inwardly screaming for a parent
To stop this thing so aberrant,
Wishing we had paid more heed
To such very basic need,
Daily brushing undermined
By sugared luxuries unrefined,
Chocolate treats of any kind
Always somewhere on my mind…
Though, truth be told, my first resort
Is generally Liquorice Allsorts,
A genetic trait, it seems to me,
Running as it does through my family(!)
But, truth be told, there’s no mystery
In the consequences of Sixties dentistry:
Making a mint for every filling
Must have procured a fair few shillings,
Remembering one particular nightmare
Literally held down in the chair
While a highly trained dental psycho
Drilled and drilled and drilled some more, so
Leaving me traumatised for life
(Frankly, I’d rather’ve gone under the knife!)
But thankfully, how much things have changed,
The whole experience free from pain,
A voice inside inciting calm
Overruling my inner-child’s alarm.
I manage not to bite his hand
Or grunt those words that arise unplanned,
Leaving with dignity still in place
And a pearly grin at avoiding disgrace…



*almost £300 lighter in the name of preserving my smile… and the capacity to eat in relative comfort…!



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