When I look into people's mouths... Okay, perish that thought, for I have done no such thing. What I meant to say was that if I happened to look into somebody's mouth I would see what anybody else would see: Rows of teeth, a tongue, a palate, an epiglottis, perhaps, if I chose to peer intently.

Anybody, that is, except my dentist. What he sees when he looks into my mouth is gold masquerading as enamel. While beholding such bounty, he has me reclining, defenceless, on a leatherette couch. Only my unfettered eyes see the castles he's building, the holidays he's going to take when he's done with me.

"I'm going to have to numb you out," he says, soothingly, tapping my crumbling molar with something steely. "This tooth is perilously close to extraction but I'm going to try and save it," he adds. I toss him a handful of silent deo soli glorias.

"Let's hope the filling holds," he says, in a clumsy attempt to bolster my flailing courage, "For if I had to extract, it could be complicated. The roots don't grow straight but are curved into the gum. I shall have to probably cut into the jaw."

Fear factor

My courage, by this stage, is at some sub-zero wasteland, frozen with terror. "It's only a routine filling, relax," he says. "You won't feel a thing."

Prescient words that will come back to haunt me! "If you want to see the bravest of men cowering with terror, tell them the dentist has asked for them. They will shiver, quiver, turn pale and sweat. It doesn't matter if they're incarnations of Alexander the Great or Napoleon. When the choice is between facing off with Mr Dentist or fleeing the scene, they will unhesitatingly choose the latter."

This was told to me by a jovial ‘aunt' who obviously got this straight from the mouth of her equally jovial dentist husband. Meanwhile... "There's not just one cavity, as you imagine, Mr Martin. There are three!" says my dentist, immediately multiplying his fortune and my agony.

"Would you like Sheri [his receptionist] to fix up two further appointments?" I gargle a reply. Aarrrgh! It's impossible to talk anyway, with cotton wads wedged in the cheeks and a solid implement clamped between my teeth to give the jaws a terrified, gaping look.

"The 12th of December suit you?" He's probing and nodding at the same time, as though I've just answered in the pristine tones of a BBC news reader. Sheri, meanwhile, inserts a tube into my mouth and proceeds to steal every drop of my spittle.

By the time they temporarily cease their ministrations and say, ‘rinse', I am desperate for a drink. Something strong, like water with 20 parts hydrogen and 10 parts oxygen.

"Bite," he says later, and I ask, perplexed, looking around for an apple or a lolly. "Bite what?" The words issue with a slur. "Your teeth. Bite and grind." The right side of my jaw feels like I no longer own it. My tongue feels oddly heavy yet wordless.

"I will now leave you in the capable hands of Sheri," says the dentist, dismissing me. Sheri walks me to the next room and extracts $360 via my credit card. The staggering price deals my knees a buckling, de-cartilaged blow. I grope for the visitor's couch.

You won't feel a thing while you're here, he promised. How true. Later, when the anaesthetic has worn off, I'm not sure what hurts more: The drilled and probed tooth, or the bill that still leaves me a bit gape-mouthed.

 

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.