Crescent Dental Clinic

«Tell them ’bout your teeth, dad. Your teeth. YOUR TEETH. Greece they was made in was’nit?». As the old man (sans hearing aid) and his daughter (sans manners) battled their way towards achieving conversation with the receptionist, I descended to the basement with the lady with whom I would spend the next 30 minutes somewhere between mild uncomfort and slight pain.
A visit to the hygienist is never a pleasant experience. We all do the charade about how often we floss and that we only drink 6 units of alcohol a week, but with the white lies taken care of the violence and indignity of the process was accomplished remarkably quickly and in quite pleasant surroundings.
Father and daughter seemed to have reached a impasse at the counter upstairs, I paid my £45 (which for a hygienist in this part of town cannot be sniffed at) and left before hostilities recommenced. As I drew breath outside, the autumnal air fizzed between my teeth.