Getting to the root of it..

I have Kitty, my lovely dental nurse, who incidentally is a spitting image of Liz Hurley, to thank for the title of this piece. Let me explain, I was lying back, almost horizontally, waiting for the anaesthetic to take effect, when she asked me if I'd rather sit up?

No thank you, I replied firmly, I do my best thinking lying down. It's the early hours in bed, where I get my ideas.

I shall have to write my next piece about this experience, I said jokingly.

Why not she conjoined, you can get to the root of it. That is what I shall call it I said, you are very clever, it's a good double meaning.

Adrian, my Dentist, who incidentally looks a dead ringer for Brad Pitt, said there are many stories about dentists, and then proceeded to amuse us with a couple of them, which completely took my mind away from the next procedure, along with its accompanying blanket of dread.

Things have not always been this way, in fact it was sixty nine years ago that my mother, (who, due to some pathological fear, never visited a dentist in her life) was required to take me to the school dentist who told her my front teeth would have to be removed, and I should have a plate.

She took me home, and it was another seven years before pain forced me to visit the dentist for the first time on my own.

I won't bother you with the catalogue of problems I encountered along the rocky road of dental practitioners. I visited various towns and cities as I moved around the country, suffice to say that, in common with plumbers and electricians, each one I visited would ask me in a condescending tone who my last dentist was, as if the previous work was not up to standard.

Everything came to head, however, when my penultimate Dentist refused point blank to do any more fillings, with the result that I lost the last of my upper teeth.

Twice I had been fitted with plates, which were so badly made and painful, that I took one of my old metal ones, and breaking off teeth from the new plate, stuck them in the last gaps using superglue and baking powder (a very strong bond which I have used on ceramics).

This state of affairs could not go on, and thanks to the Internet, I researched the situation and with the aid of my extensive collection of credit cards, and the ready available of wonderful 0% interest deals, I decided on Revitalize, which is less than sixty miles from my home.

And so I found myself actually looking forward to the prospect of the hard, electric, reclining chair with the robot like head with multiple eyes, and handles for ears, that illuminated my face through the tinted glasses like a magic Sun-ray lamp.

I should add, that not only was the reception area like the lounge of a friendly hotel, but Karen, the receptionist greeted me saying "hello Tom, would you like me to get your coffee" and shortly afterwards Adrian walks across to me, we shake hands, and pick up the conversation from my last visit, which always puts me at ease.

My mind drifts back to our first conversation, when he said "I think we can help you," and my next visit when he asked me what kind of music I would like to listen to, as it would take about an hour to drill the holes that would take the four implants.

I remember thinking, that the one composer that would give me something pleasant for my mind to latch onto, and would be familiar and soothing, had to be Mozart.

I cannot pretend that the anaesthetic injection was entirely pain free.

(You see, One day, when I was in my youth, cleaning up leaves in the back garden, I felt sharp pain in my right hand. Dropping the leaves, I saw that a rusty hypodermic needle had been driven through the palm of my hand. Cursing, I went into the kitchen, turned on the tap and wrenched out the offending needle.

There was very little blood.

I was told that I should get a tetanus jab.

I didn't.

I had a phobia of needles.)

however, shortly before the end, the supply of Mozart ran out, and during a critical period I was concentrating on "The Flower Duet" by Delibes, the utter beauty of the song seeming to detach my mind from the sound of the drill gently boring into my skull, when I heard a voice say "my daughter sang this at her......."

We are nearly at the end of the session, Adrian leaves the operating theatre, having filled my mouth with a gooey plasticky substance. Kitty tells me to keep my mouth tightly shut for three minutes, (which is for me quite difficult, being a bit of a talker), and as she is removing the instruments, she chats amiably to me.

I raise my hands and sign furiously at her using palms and fingers.

"I don't understand sign language" she sighs,

I roll my eyes, and spread my hands in a gesture of resignation – but what she doesn't realise, is that I'm faking it, which makes me tremble with silent laughter.