molar 2

The dentist’s is part of a wartorn terrace on Acre Lane. Random Brixton characters walk in off the street, demanding instant dental care. They come away beaming.

The dentist is none too bothered that I have ignored him for two years. He seems in a relaxed mood, taking my phone number and talking about optimising his customer service techniques. He thinks a phone call might be more persuasive than a card. I imagine him calling me at ten on a Friday night, beer and fags in hand, using the fear of god and dentures to reel me back to his chair.

The filling that fell out on Monday was the same one he replaced two years ago. He takes an X-ray. He says that if the nerve within the tooth is damaged, that will require root canal surgery. The nerve will need to be re-activated. He probes and asks if it hurts. I believe it to be a good thing that it does not hurt, but he tells me its not. When the drill starts to tingle through the novocaine I sigh with relief. The nerve lives on.

He inserts a new filling and says it could go at any time. Whilst most of my teeth have somehow made it to middle age in good condition, this one exists within a cycle of decay. The remedial options sound frightening enough to ensure I’ll steer clear of dentistry until the next time the tooth falls out or the Friday night phone call catches me unaware.