I didn't inflict tales from my first visit to the dentist on you, because frankly it was dull. Drill drill, ouch ouch. Aha. But. You haven't entirely escaped because the dentist has decided that I am a one woman route to, um, who knows. A gold plated drill? A Ferrari? A second honeymoon? Hey, even dentists need inappropriate shoes too, and I do not begrudge her them. Whatever. This is a way of saying I go there a LOT.
What she says:
"Oh, yes, you again Mme Jaywalkaire, I remember. These teeth are REALLY BADLY BRUSHED. Tsk. Tsk. You must eat SO much sucre. You like les Haribos, yes? You should eat less sucre. And brush your teeth. Today I will do [hideous torture #1]. But I will also need to do [hideous tortures #2, #3 and #4]. And if I were you, given how DECAYED those teeth are, and how BADLY you look after them, I would definitely also do [hideous and expensive torture #5]".
I know #5 must be really bad because it had an English name. If something has an English name in Belgium, this means it will cost you big time.
What I say:
"Mfffffshjcsk " Ummmmmgrf" "AAARrgh!" "Eeeef!" "Euh oui, un peu mal" "Vous prenez Mastercard?"
But what is really (I know, not so much, but it's all relative innit) interesting is that I LIKE this woman. A lot. I cravenly wish to please this woman. I have purchased more dental products than I could ever imagine existed to ingratiate myself with this woman who repeatedly inflicts pain upon me. I have lavished untold wealth upon her which could more pleasingly have lined the pockets of Messieurs Louboutin, Hardy, Jacobs et al. I return time and again to the jazz-lite hell of her surgery even though my primitive lizard brain is telling me to run, run, as fast and far as I can, and hide under the nearest stone.
I have dental Stockholm Syndrome! Send in the deprogrammers!