Had a slightly sore tooth for the last few days. This is a filling with a long history, repeatedly redone every few years, including once on the sly by a friend of mine in Belfast who was repeating his dentistry exams and sneaked me into the teaching clinic. (He botched it – there was a good reason why he had failed – and I had to get another friend who had passed hers to redo it a few days later.) It was subsequently redone by the excellent Dr Bastasic in Banja Luka many years ago.

Two months ago I realised that it was ages since I’d had a check-up, found a dentist near the office used by a colleague, and went to them. They did it, charged me a huge amount, and then told me to come back in a few days for polishing, which also cost a fortune.

Then the old filling started twinging last weekend. When I decided this morning that I really needed to get it seen to today, before I set off on eight days of travelling, the expensive dentist I’d used in January couldn’t fit me in. Luckily I found another who was prepared to look at me right after lunch. He took one look at the historically problematic filling, shook his head sadly and said, “Il faut sortir tout ça.” Why the hell didn’t the other expensive dentists spot that there was a potential problem back in January?

Anyway, the new dentist was very chatty. Turned out his father had been a Belgian soldier posted to Northern Ireland during World War II, in Portstewart. Much discussion about Bosnia and wars of religion, some of which was a monologue by him as he fiddled around with my mouth. I was pleased with myself at being able to carry on the conversation in French as far as was physically feasible in the circumstances.

Anyway he has warned me that it will hurt like buggery for the next twenty-four hours, so those of you who see me tomorrow may find me less talkative than sometimes. Or seeking anasthesia.

One thought on “Dentist

  1. Read The Damned Utd, regardless of whether or not you know or care about Leeds United or Brian Clough; and then read the Red Riding quartet and GB84. David Peace is about the best English writer around today, give or take Jonathan Coe, though his multi-threaded style owes more to Alasdair Gray than anyone.

    Of the rest that are unmarked, King is a hack, Ishiguro is mannered and dull, and Kinsella will melt your brain cells, and not in a nice way. The rest I really couldn’t care two hoots about either way.

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