Thursday June 14, 2007
Six month check-up at the dentist today, under the NHS. It works like this: You go along for an inspect and general poke around. That costs a tad over 15 quid and is scheduled in a ten minute slot. If there’s anything needing attention the fee increases to 43 quid (-ish) and you either get the treatment there and then or at a further appointment.
“You have a small hole in need of attention,” he said. “I’ll do it now if you like?”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Go ahead.” And I closed my eyes and thought of England. Didn’t get to think of much of the Kingdom, though, for there were a couple of instances of whirring machinery and of slight pressure and there he was, ushering me out of the comfy chair just as I was expecting the needle.
“Did we do a filling?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“Well, darn my hide.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
And off I toddled, having paid the fee and booked myself in for the next six-month check-up, to include a private session with the scale-and-polish lady. The fee I paid today covers me for any other treatment needed over the next two months, up to and including extractions, and the filling itself is guaranteed for twelve months, with a free replacement. Can’t say fairer than that.
I’ve peered in my mouth best I can, and prodded the site with my tongue and, yes, the tooth has been filled. Didn’t hurt a bit.
Oh, the wonders of modern dental science. And, I have to say, not bad for sixty-year-old British teeth.
I heard another titter-worthy joke today:
Two cows in a field. One of them turns to the other and says: “Moo!” The other says: “Strange, I was just going to say the same thing.”
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