Ha! Another cheery blog entry I hear you cry.
I bashed my middle tooth on a mug of coffee, and now I have to go and see a *shudder* Dentist. With most people that wouldn't be a problem. But I have a fear of Dentists that far surpasses logic.
When I was little (and cute - thought I'd mention it) We had a private Dentist called Donald Derrick who was a friend of the family. He used to drill and fill without anaesthetic, and when I'd start getting fractious he'd say: 'don't be a big baby'. I was. A big, big baby. Fair do's at nine years old. I defy anyone to sit happily being drilled without anaesthetic, nowadays.
Then at twelve I went to the woman in the surgery next door ... Anne Panting. It's strange how I remember their names. Much like the way you can't forget Hitler, probably. Anyway, she had me under a general anaesthetic, took out four back teeth (why?) and gave me braces. I hated braces.
Now, due to the complete lack of Dentists in the country that don't demand half your house, I'm probably going to end up cowering in the corner behind a plant pot whilst a large South African with a thick accent waves a drill at me.