Prophecies of Doom and Gloom

A man walks into a dentist's surgery, as the joke would begin. I am that man, and it's actually the hygienist's surgery, and I'm unlikely to be cracking any jokes because my customary October slump has turned up a month late. My mother is in hospital on a different continent, every day brings an increased awareness of just how many fatheads are at large in the world, Donald Trump still hasn't been loaded into a cannon and fired into the sun, it's pissing with rain, and I'm at the dentist.

I've anticipated a repeat of the cowboy hat comment, which has additionally dimmed my mood. Last time I came, she beckoned me into the surgery and said, 'That's quite a look you have going there. You have your cowboy hat. You have your check shirt…'

It isn't a fucking look. These are simply clothes I wear, and the Stetson is practical because it keeps off both scorching sun and pouring rain; plus we're in fucking Texas and the hat is therefore hardly worth commenting upon unless you're a moron; but I know she's just making conversation.

'Leave your hat on the side,' she says without further discussion of the same, much to my surprise. 'So, have you been doing anything fun?'

I climb into the chair. 'Not really. My mother has been in hospital so it's been a pretty tough six months.'

'Oh no. Is she okay?'

'I hope so but I don't know. It's very frustrating. I mean I went back to England in September, but there's not much I can do. It's her hip. She's had it replaced.'

'Still - she'll have the best healthcare money can buy.'

I'm momentarily bewildered by this comment. 'Not really. It's England.'

'Well, they can always fly someone in.'

Again I'm bewildered but I carry on. 'Well they've operated, so hopefully she will be home soon.'

'How old is she now? Ninety-four?'

I have no memory of ever having told this woman anything about my mother. 'What? Did Bess talk to you? You must be thinking of her grandmother. Anyway, no - she isn't ninety-four.'

'Bess?'

'My wife.' I tell her my mother's age.

'Your mother?'

'Yes, my mother, the one who went in for an operation, the one who phoned me and said I don't want you to worry but I think I've had a stroke.'

She laughs, but it's an awkward laugh. 'I thought you were talking about the Queen!'

She gibbers an apology, and I realise that everything which came from my mouth since she asked whether I'd been doing anything fun may as well have been blinky blonkey blimey, Mary Poppins! She finks I bin talking about the jolly old Queen 'cause I is a British from England innit! Wot else would I of bin talking about if not 'er Royal 'ighness. Stroike a loite!

The day just became even more depressing, which isn't entirely unexpected.

She works on my teeth for about thirty minutes, maybe forty. I am in excruciating discomfort because she can't numb me during cleaning for reasons she explained last time and which I didn't understand; and she has to use the sonic cleaning implement in preference to the manual one which didn't used to hurt so much. Every so often she stops and asks if I'm in pain. I tell her yes and she carries on. Maybe she thinks that the general impression of her concern will have a mild anaesthetic effect. It feels as though someone is stabbing needles into my gums with force, which probably isn't too far off what's happening.

The other dentist drops in and studies my x-ray. 'This one is going to have to come out. Is it painful?'

'No, and it's been absolutely fine. If anything that particular tooth seems less mobile than it was this time last year.'

'Well, it isn't going to be fine forever.'

'Thanks. I already know that. If it's okay with you, I'd prefer to have it taken out when it starts giving me trouble, rather than now while it's still fine.'

Rebecca, my regular hygienist, has retired. I liked Rebecca. Somehow she was able to clean my teeth beneath the gum line without it being agony, and without assuming I'd be using those same teeth to scoff some jolly old fish and chips like the bloke that I am. Rebecca had been around Europe and was interesting, with photos of her family and places to which they had travelled lining her office. Her replacement has just a picture of herself and her husband, who looks like your bog standard truck-driving shithead.

My regular dentist has also become an infrequent visitor these days, leaving me with these two and their prophecies of doom and gloom delivered as though I've been living under the illusion of having the teeth of an Osmond brother. My regular dentist - the guy who actually did the work and saved what teeth I had left - used to tell me how well I was doing, and how he wished he'd taken photographs of my mouth prior to treatment so as to showboat at dental conferences with the before and after shots.

Eventually the pain stops.

She finishes and makes me another appointment, now giving me a special mouthwash to use. Apparently it will do something to reduce the pain of her stabbing away at my gums even further, but I know that she may as well be giving me a scented candle for all the difference it will make.

It's now raining even harder.