Today was teeth day, having completed five sides of a pre-visit questionnaire before attending, and remembering the instruction not to touch the doorbell on arrival as they would come out to receive me, hand sanitizers locked and loaded
There are no waiting rooms in the new normal. Once inside, I took up position on the hallway tiles designated spot for my temperature check, involving a strange Star Trek device which apparently gleans all the information it requires from shooting a beam of light two meters from my forehead. It informed me my temperature is slightly low, but it didn’t prevent me from being able to move on and into the treatment room; the one which never lives up to its name as there are never ever any treats.
Somewhere beneath all the hulking layers of protective plastic stood the dentist I’ve known since 1975, and her assistant. It was impossible to distinguish which was which, or to interpret what their masked voices were saying. They resembled dastardly scientists from a 1950s sci-fi movie, eager to strap me down and set to with the neatly arranged instruments close by. And what if it wasn’t my actual dentist at all? Bracing myself for whatever fate had in store, I mounted The Chair and opened wide…
Happily, my check-up was completed with efficiency and speed, (I have the best dentist), and I even remembered to exit without touching those doorknobs. Nevertheless, on arriving home I still considered immersing my entire body in a bath tub of hand sanitiser, just as a precaution you understand.
I don’t think I’m ready to risk the pub quite yet.
All text copyright Ian Gordon Craig.