bloke moves to france with confused partner and two barking-mad terriers
Friday, March 23, 2012
My old dentist retired a couple of years ago. Been meaning to sign up with the only other dentist in town, but didn't quite get around to it. Fear, that's the problem. Anyways, having lost an old cap (is that the right technical term?) from one of my choppers, and having discovered a few holes in other fangs, I eventually plucked up the courage to enter the devil's den sometime last week to see if I could arrange an appointment. Charming receptionist booked me in for Thursday at 10.15am. Turned up yesterday on the dot of 10.14 and took a seat in the waiting room, reeking of peppermints. Nervous wreck. I'd been dreading this moment for the entire week since making the appointment. Even considered chickening out with some lame excuse, but decided against it. Be brave! It'll be fine when it's over! As there were three other people in the waiting room, I knew I'd be in for a long wait. Maybe up to an hour. Or more. Wasn't sure I could bear the torture of waiting that long without doing a runner. Then the receptionist came in and grabbed the next victim. So now I was third in line. With luck maybe just a thirty minute wait. Sheer hell, but way better than waiting for an hour. Five minutes later, the receptionist came in again. Brilliant! At this rate my waiting time might be down to around fifteen minutes. Quite a relief. But this time, instead of grabbing the next victim, she looked straight at me. Aaaarrggghh! No, not me! I'm not ready yet! These other two are before me! Fumbling with her desk diary, she asked the time of my appointment. Told her 10.15. Checked the diary. No, you're not in. Bit more fumbling with diary. Aha! Yes, 10.15! But 10.15 next week! And with that I made a sheepish exit and began another week of nervous wreckdom. Nightmare.
Bohemian hermit recluse hiding in the mist-shrouded hills and backwoods of central France; went to art school in the mid-Sixties and never really left; masochistic supporter of Aldershotnil FC; fascinated by the mystery of disappearing odd socks; follically, cosmetically and vertically challenged but horizontally unchallenged, otherwise perfect (it says here); probably one of the luckiest geezers in the whole wide world.