Filling fears of a cavity coward

Noticing that it had a window, my first instinct was automatically to ignore this particular missive, reasoning that any letter with such a tell-tale characteristic would either be a bill or a charity begging for some money.

However, valour proved to be the better part of discretion on this occasion. Oh, and before we continue much further, please don't form the wrong impression - although there are misguided and mean-spirited souls who maintain the Phillpott wallet can only be opened with a generous charge of gelignite, contributions to causes have been known. So, throwing caution to the wind, I reached for the paper knife.

Soon, all was revealed. It wasn't a bill, neither was it a standing order form with a blurb that proclaimed "for a donation of just five pounds, this village in Rwanda can buy all the maize it needs."

No. It was a reminder from the dental practice I had visited on a number of fear-crazed appointments earlier this year.

Dash it. I thought they would forget all about me.

The gist was that according to their records (gulp - are their spies everywhere?) I was due to pay them a visit for a check-up. Now, I'll come clean. I have absolutely no problems with me opening my mouth and the dentist just looking. Looking, I said. After all, looking never hurt anyone.

Oh no, it's the pronged wotsits that poke and jab about followed by the buzzing thing that tend to set my nerves jangling. So, I'll tootle along to the surgery on one condition - nothing is done that will cause me the slightest discomfort.

Pull yourself together. It's not as if you haven't travelled this road before, is it? Certainly isn't, as it happens.

Just after last Christmas, a tooth that had been periodically playing me up started to become so painful that the left side of my jaw was paralysed by this nagging, dull ache. I could prevaricate no longer - not having visited a dentist in years, I was obliged to attend the emergency clinic down in Lowesmoor.

Here a kindly dentist drilled and dressed the offending molar and then talked to me about rugby football as I recovered from what - for me - was a bit of an ordeal.

Yes, I know this sounds pathetic, cowardly even. But at least I have the courage to confront my demons in public. In any event, I tend to be brave in other types of situations - buying a round when all escape routes are blocked, for instance. Now, that takes real guts.

So I walked back to the Evening News that fine Friday morning with a dull throb on the left side of my face but content in the knowledge that the tooth had been drilled out and filled. And that was my first mistake - it had not been filled but dressed.

Two weeks later, there I was, chewing on a wine gum, and it was farewell to that little plug made from a curious chalky substance. A dressing is not the same as a filling, oh no.

Another couple of weeks, and with a cavity that seemed as big as the Grand Canyon, the pain had returned. Desperate people do desperate things - the only relief I could obtain was to block the hole with a piece of chewing gum. Talk about head in the sand.

Then the inevitable happened. The discomfort was so bad that I was forced to seek the assistance of a dental surgeon, such was my distress. I beat a lonely path to his door one sunny, early February day.

I spoke to the charming receptionist at the desk and was directed to a room where for the next 15 minutes or so was obliged to watch a video of chimpanzees cleaning their teeth.

Up went the brush, then down it went, searching every nook and cranny of the simian cakeholes. These chimps seemed to love the entire dental hygiene routine.

My-oh-my, it looks such fun - I can't wait to sit in that chair where I too will take off for Planet Bliss and join my close relatives in that land of dental joy where it is always summer and the fillings are made of icing sugar.

The time came. Employing the logic that honesty is always best, I told the dentist that the reason why I hadn't been for years was because of craven cowardice. In fact, I'd prepared him with my written responses on the form I'd filled out beforehand.

Citing lack of moral fibre as an excuse, I reasoned that if I could convince him that I was a gibbering wreck at the mere smell of disinfectant, then he'd go easy - on the grounds of compassion, if nothing else.

Well, whatever the reason, the sessions that ensued over the next few weeks were made just about bearable by this particular surgeon's undoubted skill.

He knew just the right moment to take off the drill, although a phoney "ooaah-ugh-yah" chucked in now and again reminded my tormentor that it was time to drop down a gear or two.

He'd been quite straight with me. The choice was between having the tooth pulled or saved. His professional advice was to save it, and it seemed to be the right course, so with a heavy heart, I agreed.

Somehow or other, I lasted the course and ended up with a completely rebuilt back molar with the roots nicely filled and blocked off so that they would cause me no more pain.

Now, you might say what a lot of fuss about going to the dentists. And you'd be right... sort of. But I think if they're honest, the majority of people have a fear of the dreaded chair.

It's something to do with the area of operation - the head, which is the centre of a person's universe - and the feeling of total helplessness in the chair.

I'm convinced that if dentistry was mainly concerned with fiddling about in the region between the big toe and the knee then I wouldn't flinch for a moment. Well, maybe.

So, the moral of this story is that everybody should visit their dentist more regularly than I did. For I put off the inevitable and paid for it in the end, thinking that if I ignored all the signs, then the problem would go away.

Nevertheless, it's easier said than done. And I'm staring at this reminder on the kitchen table. My vacant gaze turns to the food cupboards.

There's a bottle of cloves in the cabinet - and then it occurs to me that those little black twigs were once the only things that stood between pain and no pain.

Better reach for the phone. "Oh, yes, is that the surgery? I've just had a reminder from you about a dental check-up. Two-thirty, a week on Wednesday? Yes, that's fine, no problem, see you then. Bye."

Actually, I've made up that bit - I'm still dithering, as it happens. But you never know.