The Great Molars Massacre

 

There is a distinct, deeply unsettling irony in leaving Elm Park, affectionately known to the local rodent population as the Kingdom of the Rats, only to willingly walk into a room where a very polite woman in a crisp white coat prepares to treat your mouth like an archaeological dig site. Anyone who chooses to spend forty years peering into the damp caverns of strangers' mouths definitely possesses a dark, cinematic side.

The older I get, the more I am convinced that human evolution simply packed its bags and gave up around the mid-point of the twentieth century. Since crossing the terrifying threshold of fifty, my teeth have staged a coordinated, union-backed rebellion. Is it genetics? Is it the relentless, cruel ticking of the clock? A tragedy, truly.

I was entirely prepared for The Lecture on the evils of coffee, followed by twenty minutes of mild, state-sanctioned torture and a bill that will leave my future holiday cocktail budget looking thoroughly, beautifully ruined. Dismally. 

But then, a plot twist of supreme, cosmic proportions.

In a magnificent display of karmic farce, the appointment was abruptly cancelled because the dentist herself had a dental emergency. You really have to marvel at the logistics. You’d think with a room full of high-speed mirrors and industrial suction, she’d just pull up a stool and do a bit of casual, DIY self-flagellation before lunch. Apparently not.

The reprieve is glorious. The cocktail fund is saved, (for now) and I am morally obligated to celebrate by drinking something terribly dark and caffeinated. Victory, fleetingly.