‘Talk to you on the other side’ I said to a friend as we wished each other well for the Christmas and New Year period and now here we are firmly deposited on the other side, hurtling through January, downhill all the way to Spring. Needless to say I have done no hurtling whatsoever on the Burgundy Bombshell which is enjoying a long winter hibernation next to the wheelie bin.
I am, however, girding my loins and gritting my teeth for the first cycling venture of 2012 – and the teeth have been gritted or rather polished today. Oh yes it was the first trip of the year to the dentist and worse still the hygenist. The teeth were chattering in fear as I approached with the dawning realisation that I had managed to miss a visit. I gritted the teeth and gulped hard as the hygenist deflected my attempts at small talk , whacked the chair to such an angle that every blood cell in my body rushed to my head, selected what looked like the ice pick from Basic Instinct, and with a flex of the muscles attacked my molars with gusto. When I was a child the dentist wore a white coat – grunted and went about his business of butchery in workmanlike fashion – there were no hygenists, polishing was for posh folk and if you had a hole it was either drilled with something sounding like a Black and Decker and filled with a lump of metal or summarily yanked out leaving you walking home clutching a damp bit of tissue in no way designed to stem the flow of your life blood. I once saw a street dentist in China performing an extraction in full view of the assembled townsfolk and from analysis of his neanderthal approach I am sure had been trained by our Mr Cropper.
Nowadays, my hygenist and her henchwoman are garbed as if about to enter a post nuclear contamination zone. Full face helmets channelling those worn by the flashdancing welder of the 80’s – scarily the practice loo has a high tank chain flush..though thankfully I could see no trace of legwarmers tucked amongst the glossy magazines and terrifying array of superpowered toothbrushes and other assorted oral weaponry. Once restored to an upright position with exhortations of not to forget to use my little brushes in the nether regions of my upper molars ringing in my ears, I staggered down to the the boudoir of the divine dental diva . You may have now realised that the entire practice is populated by women – which does at least allow for some mitigation in that the glossy magazines are always the latest editions of Vogue, Marie Claire and Elle. Once in the correct position, upside down on the tasteful purple leather couch I spotted the latest refinement which my expensive monthly payment is fuelling – a flat screen plasma tv screen inset into the ceiling, which no doubt soothes and distracts the more restless clients, however as I had relinquished my glasses I spent 5 mins watching what appeared to be a live action version of the artworks of Hieronymus Bosch.
Five minutes of poking, prodding and attempting to decode the incomprehensible and cryptic stream of numbers which pass for assessment and I was restored to my feet, told I was a good girl really, metaphorically patted on the head and despatched back to reception.
Well my gnashers are now in tip top condition for a bit of gritting and gritted they will be this weekend as it is time to rouse the Burgundy Bombshell from her winter slumbers, give her a bit of TLC, strap the new bag to the rack and venture back on to the roads or at very least the canal tow path, and who knows once I return I may even be tempted to rifle iTunes and download ‘What a Feeling’….. but I may give the leg warmers a miss…