Dentist’s waiting rooms grind my nerves. No matter how sparkling the receptionist, how beaming the flowers, how enlightening the magazines, I wait with taut stomach, clenched jaw, and sweaty brow.
Behind double doors, a drill bores it’s victim’s tooth. I feel the pain, hear the silent screams, and sympathize with the patients rapidly rinsing wallet.
A man, half his face numb, tries to make another appointment, but words slur into dribble. Apparently the receptionist understands the language of numb, as she smilingly passes him a new summons card.
Eventually I am the last person left; no-one else waits for the dentist. The time has come. You would think, at my age, that these childish phobias would have passed, but no, this waiting room is torture.
The doors swing open. A wide smile greets me warmly. The dentist approaches, expectant.
‘Ready Mum?’ my dentist daughter asks.
Arm in arm, we head out for lunch, leaving my phobia at the door, where it waits patiently for next time.