After having a
disrupted nights sleep I woke up and at looking at my watch I saw it was 0615
hrs; not ideal but all is not lost as the alarm is set for 0630 hrs, which
gives me fifteen minutes of slumbersome grace.
But it turned out to be a dream and looking at my watch it transpired it
was actually 0620 hrs, so the dream had cunningly robbed me of 5 precious
minutes. I then heard the annoying
sound of my alarm which revealed that in fact hitherto the whole thing was a
dream, or a mini nightmare (a slightmare?) and the real time was the dreaded
0630 hrs, time to get up.
I purposely
chose an irritating sound for the alarm on my mobile phone so I have to stumble
out of bed to quickly switch it off. In
the days before mobile phones when I had a radio alarm, which were the height
of chic technology at one time (probably debuting on Tomorrow’s World), I used to wake up to the caustic voice of the
late Derek Jameson on BBC Radio 2, which was guaranteed to make me fly out of
bed to switch off his grating tones but which made me start the day on an ill
tempered note.
Up and out of
bed into the nippy Codger Mansions bedroom; the place is generally cold but it
is at its worst first thing in the morning as I cannot deduce how to work out
the unfathomable central heating settings, try as I may. The code breakers of Bletchley Park
Even with the
radiators on, in the majority of the house it is no guaranteed safeguard
against goose bumps. The toasty, small living room is the exception as a few
years ago I bought a heater from one of these bargain basement shops that
spring up from nowhere and disappear as quickly in a dodgy fashion. The heater was a mere £7 and as it is still
working in a fine warming fashion I count myself lucky. Lucky 7.
Once heated up
by a hot bath it was off to take the Cannonball to school before a trip to the
dentist. I always enjoy a visit to the
primary school as generally they must be one of the happiest and joyous places
on earth, with the children’s paintings on the wall, the warmth from the old
fashioned radiators and the laughter and boyishness of the Cannonball and his
friends. Primary schools are indemnified
from the harshness and the realities of the adult outside world and they are an
oasis of hope and innocence.
I got to the
dentist at 0850 hours, 10 minutes early, and the door was still locked so I
waited in the car to shelter from the cold.
I noticed that the curry house
over the road had a sign stating “Bring your own drinks – beer and wine only”,
which was presumably to stop heavy boozing on the premises. I playfully thought about going in there with
bottles of the Brewdog beer, The End of History, which stands at a very cheeky
55% ABV and drinking them right under the waiter’s nose to flout the
rules. But I discounted the idea, as no
one likes a clever dick, least of all me.
I scrambled around
the car for some extra strong mints which I thought I had, as despite endless
tooth scrubbing before leaving the house my mouth felt less than fragrant. Although the night before I had admirably
steered clear of booze, forgetting the impending dentist visit I had eaten
pickled onions to complement a selection of cheese that the Pirate had sold me
in the Flagon. The pickled onions had
the same effect on the freshness my breath as a cross has to a vampire. My
search was fruitless, or mint-less rather, so I would just have to front it
out.
Looking at the
shops on both sides of the main road I realised that only a couple remained as
the same businesses as when I was a child and even those had changed hands at
some stage. This served as a reminder
that change is the one constant in life.
There was change
afoot at the dentists. I had received a
letter stating that my dental surgeon of 25 years, Mr Walter, was retiring and
that a Mr Shulmer was to take over the firm and consequently the responsibility
for my teeth. Given that Mr Walter
enjoyed my complete faith and trust the news of his unforeseen departure was a
shock to say the least and although I had never met Shulmer I doubted that he
could live up to Walter’s impeccable old school standards.
On entering the
surgery I noticed the old receptionist, Sharon, had also gone. A complete and
brutal cull. The new receptionist seemed
to have all the requisite qualities for the job except for an obvious absence
of personality and polite charm, so she seemed perfect for the post. Sitting in the waiting room I noticed that it
was still cash or cheque only, which offered some reassurance. It is too common a sight now for young upstarts
to stand waiting for a drink in a pub holding up a plastic card; it is always
to my great pleasure when the landlord informs them that no, they don’t take
cards. The Flagon of course, as you
would imagine, is strictly cash only.
At 0907 hours
in rushed Shulmer like the perennially late Reggie Perrin. His
tardiness didn’t fill me with confidence and to compound matters he was not
only unshaven but his shoes were in a considerably more worn state that mine. On being invited into the surgery I could see
that unlike Walter, under his gown his wore no shirt and tie, or indeed any
clothing at all. Not only was Shulman
young but he was also visibly nervous, repeating his words on more than one
occasion. I began to wonder if I was his first post-training victim.
I explained to Shulman
that I had cracked a filling on a peppercorn but his first act was to take an
inventory of my teeth, calling out the state of each individual tooth to his
assistant. Most teeth were described as
“restored” which is the quaint neo-dentist way of referring to a filling, which
makes my teeth sound like a refurbished antique Edwardian cabinet. Shulman could have saved everyone
considerable time by summarising to his assistant, “his teeth are f*cked.”
On inspecting
the cracked “restored” molar Shulman commented ruefully that, “it doesn’t look
good”, after which I expected him to explain that the tooth would need to be
refilled in the same way Mr Walter had done many times before. Instead Shulman’s apologetic assessment was
that the tooth had to come out, it was, like his shoddy shoes, beyond repair. To make things worse, it would be a messy and
troublesome procedure as the tooth was split so he would have to dig down to
the roots. I wanted the reassuring Walter back, who
surely would have patched up the molar in time honoured fashion and dismissed
me as good to go.
While I lay
there with Shulman yanking in vain at my tooth I tried to divert my mind from
the horror of the situation by thinking of how many readies the surly receptionist
was going to fleece me for once Shulman had finished his butchery. I knew the extraction from my wallet would be
infinitely more painful than the extraction from my mouth. The rookie dentist then informed me that he
was having grief getting the split tooth out as the roots didn’t want to budge,
which made me wonder why he was extracting the hardy molar in the first place.
When the Shulman
had finally finished it left a big toothless gap down the left side of my
bleeding upper mouth, as I lost a tooth in the same spot years earlier playing
football. Overall though, he seemed to
have done a competent job, especially as with him being fresh out of college I
was effectively a guinea pig.
Before I left
Shulman told me that these days with modern dentistry techniques, my teeth
would not need to be restored quite as much but older style dentists had a
tendency to drill and fill. He had
managed to turn the tables on the gentlemanly Walter, who in hindsight had
appeared to be using Victorian methods right up until his retirement. So Shulman seemed to know his onions, which
means undoubtedly he recognised the pickled variety that so distastefully
flavoured my soured breath.
* * * * *
Postscript
They say death
comes in threes. After the sad passing of writer Jonathan Rendall
and bluesman Magic Slim I was wondering who was next. It transpired that my long time barber Trevor
was the one to complete the trio. A bit
of a shock to say the least. I only saw
him a few weeks ago, the last time he trimmed my hair and he seemed in good
enough health at the time. When I went into the shop Paul was
there with a younger barber, a Wolves fan, but no Trev, who normally worked on
a Tuesday. I asked Paul how Trev
is. When Paul replied, “Don’t you know?”
in a serious fashion I could see what was coming.
At 66 he still
worked of course and was always out and about doing one thing or another and
indulging in his love of photography. Trev
was always quick with a quip and a smile and he turned the mundane task of a
trip to the barbers into a pleasant experience that I always looked forward to
and enjoyed so he will be sorely missed but fondly remembered.
© Dominic
Horton, 4th March, 2013.
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