Say AHHH

On Wednesday I have a dentist appointment.

And I am absolutely shitting myself at the prospect.

It's just a check-up, and I'm slightly calmed by the knowledge that when they do decide to do horrible things to me, I will have another couple of weeks to think about it before it happens. But it will happen. I know it will. They're going to go scrape with that little metal scrapey thing and I'll go "OWWW!" then it'll be game over.

Here's the truth. I haven't been to the dentist in ages. In fact, I can't actually remember the last time, aside from the fact that it was probably while I was at university, possibly before. If this all reads like a bit of a guilty confession, you're spot on. I am completely embarrassed about my lack of dental care.

To compensate for this non-dentist-attendance, I brush twice a day, floss and swill round whatever I find in the bathroom (err, within reason). They're deceptive little scamps, my teeth. They're straight, they're white, they look fine. From the outside, you'd never guess that I've already had fillings and two back teeth removed on either side. I'm embarrassed about that, too, even though no one ever notices unless I drag a gum to one side and point out the gaps.

My fear of The Chair started when I was very little, and I think I caught it from my sister, who once took great delight in biting our dentist's finger. Neither of us liked him, he wasn't very child friendly and come to think of it, he had the worst set of nashers I'd ever seen. Whether it was the sight of his own teeth or the thought of what he was about to do to mine, I'd cry until they agreed to giving me general anaesthetic to have the work done.

Looking back, I suppose looking after my teeth came second to problems at my various schools and several hospital stints throughout my sickly youth (asthma attacks, a bout of meningitis, ongoing migraines, something called Acute Torticullis - the list goes on). When I ran out of passes to the anaesthetic clinic, they sent me to another place down the road where I had extractions under the wonderful, woozy influence of laughing gas. I remember giggling uncontrollably at the clock on the wall as the nurse came towards me with a needle and asked me to open wide. It was actually pretty good fun.

But long gone are the days of glorious nitrous oxide. On Wednesday I face being prodded and poked with rubber gloves, scraped and screeched at by metal bits and filled with squeeky cotton wool; then chastised for not visiting sooner.

And best of all - I'll be paying for the pleasure.

I hate the dentist. Save me now.