Last Friday, I visited my mother's dentist to have an ancient filling excavated and replaced. My mother, now nearly 60, has teeth like Farrah Fawcett, although she's convinced that her wide, white smile and rudely healthy gums make her look like a camel. Her dentist is one of those people born for a career in broadcasting - a sunny personality armed an easy smile and cheerful, well enunciated speech just perfect for daytime TV; "So what you have to remember, Simon is that plaque is a very very clever thing, so you have to hunt it using a variety of means". She's also got a sly sense of humour and recounted (while good-humouredly stabbing me in the soft tissues with a syringe full of local anaesthetic) an encounter with one of her tutors, years ago at dental college. He'd obviously pegged her as a trouble-maker (my kind of gal) with her faint London accent, state education, and - wait for it - open-toed sandals. "Young lady," he addressed her, casting a long glance down his nose towards her feet. "Toenails are painted red not by dental students, but by ladies of the night." She twinkled back up at him (she's not tall, by a long shot), and replied "Oh, I didn't know. But how did you know?"
So, she's drilling away, tooth dust filling the air and her attractive assistant hoovering away inside my mouth with a plastic tube. My face is numb, and all I can feel is the vibration of my jaw and skull, and an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Deftly, she finishes up, looks me in the eye and giggles. "You know, you've been holding your breath for more than three minutes. Are you practicing for a dive?"
The last few months have felt like this. Holding my breath, waiting for a chance to relax so I can let it all out. I've been working in one of the grottiest parts of town, on a project that has presented such a multitude of weird twists, turns, obstacles and intrigues that, what with the slum surroundings (including mice droppings on my desk, can you BELIEVE?) and tortuous plot, it's all been quite Dickensian. London in the winter. To be missed, totally.
So, she's drilling away, tooth dust filling the air and her attractive assistant hoovering away inside my mouth with a plastic tube. My face is numb, and all I can feel is the vibration of my jaw and skull, and an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Deftly, she finishes up, looks me in the eye and giggles. "You know, you've been holding your breath for more than three minutes. Are you practicing for a dive?"
The last few months have felt like this. Holding my breath, waiting for a chance to relax so I can let it all out. I've been working in one of the grottiest parts of town, on a project that has presented such a multitude of weird twists, turns, obstacles and intrigues that, what with the slum surroundings (including mice droppings on my desk, can you BELIEVE?) and tortuous plot, it's all been quite Dickensian. London in the winter. To be missed, totally.
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