The whole tooth
My friend Pat is to dentistry what some celebrities are to cosmetic surgery. She takes her annual check-up every three months with flying visits in between to check up on the check-up. She is currently the proud possessor of 10 (NHS) crowns at £400 each and three veneers (cost undisclosed). To prevent grinding her teeth at night she paid £70 for a custom-made gumshield, which she lost within days. Convinced that she’d swallowed it in her sleep, she then bought a replacement.
I told her, ‘If I’d swallowed anything as large and unyielding as a gumshield, I’d steer clear of them for the rest of my life.’
‘It’s called a mouthguard,’ she said severely, while lining up her floss, Super Floss, dental tape and interdental brushes in three different sizes on her bathroom shelf.
I lay the blame at the surgery door of our dentist, Mrs Ronchetti. Previous dentists have shown me photographs of their husbands, wives, children and pets, including a potbellied pig. But none have ever sat me down in front of a computer screen to share an image of their ‘worst ever case’ of gum disease.
‘If he’d started cleaning properly even two years earlier, I could have saved some of those teeth,’ Mrs Ronchetti clicked to another photograph. ‘Look! Tooth decay at its finest!’
Like many obsessions, it began innocuously. Pat made an appointment to replace her then one-and-only crown, which she’d managed to crack on a salmon and cream-cheese bagel.
I should have heard warning bells when I spotted her leaving the florist carrying a bouquet of lilies, pink rosebuds and sprays of baby’s breath. The bunch was so enormous I only recognised her from her knees downwards – corduroy trousers running into Clarks tasselled loafers.
‘Who are the flowers for?’ I’d asked.
‘Mrs Ronchetti. She’s done a fabulous job,’ Pat lowered the bouquet and bared her teeth.
By the following morning, the new crown was uncomfortable. Mrs Ronchetti was forced to find an emergency window in her hectic schedule, between a multiple extraction and a scale and polish. Several hours later, Pat returned. Her crown was still uncomfortable but she had been reassured it would settle down in time.
‘I jumped the gum,’ she said. ‘I mean “gun”.’
‘You jumped the gun buying her an unnecessarily large bouquet.’
‘Not at all. I have complete faith in the woman. I’ve made another appointment to have my metal fillings changed for white ones.’
‘Aren’t they more expensive?’
She nodded. ‘But cosmetically appealing. Mrs Ronchetti showed me before and after pictures of Cheryl Cole and Justin Bieber.’
‘You don’t look like either of them.’
Pat had looked smug. ‘But I could do.’
From a survey encouraging us to take more care of our teeth, it appears that nearly five million people in the UK will never visit a dentist. Seven per cent still prefer to do it themselves, as in the ancient arts of tooth wobbling, tying string between molar and doorknob, and strategically placing chewing gum to fill the gaps.
Please can we have another survey to see how historically they got on? Did many of that five million just grow older, with pleasant smiles intact and several thousand pounds better off?
My last dentist, now retired, only ever gave me a clean, polish and short discussion about where best to park in Crouch End.
‘Not bad,’ he’d say in a soothing tone. ‘Some movement but that’s only to be expected.’
Which was exactly what I needed to hear, being one of the 15 per cent of patients suffering from ‘extreme dentist anxiety’. Reassured I was in and out within a few minutes at the cost of a mere ten pounds.
Yes, Mrs Ronchetti has worked wonders but I have had to forego M&S patterned toilet rolls, bottles of Gordon’s Gordon’s gin and to limit the times I take my cat, Lettuce, to the vet. My dental bills to date represent the deposit on a twobedroomed bungalow. Dentists (rather like vets) can nowadays be guaranteed to find something in that very small orifice that is one’s mouth, which will need capping, crowning, filling, filing or pulling.
Over to my neighbour, Ted, who has been a patient of Mr Lloyd’s at the end of our road since time immemorial.
I asked him, ‘Ted, how can you bear to trust the health of your teeth to a man who has grubby net curtains?’
Ted, tersely: ‘Mr Lloyd isn’t there to give me tips on laundry.’
‘And does he provide a hygienist?’
‘What would that be?’
‘Someone who gives advice on oral health.’
‘Oral health!’ Ted bellows. ‘I’m 83 with all my own teeth. A pox on oral health!’
Pat arrived back from a tête-à-tête with Mrs Ronchetti, costing her £43. ‘We’ve had a riveting discussion on receding gums.’ She looked hopefully at me as if I too might like to discuss receding gums.
I had nothing to say on the subject.
‘Oh, come on.’ She settled herself at my kitchen table. ‘Didn’t we have a fine old conversation last year when you had that bridgework done? I recall you saying that having a tooth removed was like hearing a tree falling to the forest floor.’
I flashed my four-figure smile at her. ‘That was rather poetic of me. OK, let’s talk teeth!’
VG Lee will be performing her unique take on life after 60 at Polari on 28 February, 7.45pm at the Royal Festival Hall, London SE1: 0844-875 0073, www.southbankcentre.co.uk
I told her, ‘If I’d swallowed anything as large and unyielding as a gumshield, I’d steer clear of them for the rest of my life.’
‘It’s called a mouthguard,’ she said severely, while lining up her floss, Super Floss, dental tape and interdental brushes in three different sizes on her bathroom shelf.
I lay the blame at the surgery door of our dentist, Mrs Ronchetti. Previous dentists have shown me photographs of their husbands, wives, children and pets, including a potbellied pig. But none have ever sat me down in front of a computer screen to share an image of their ‘worst ever case’ of gum disease.
‘If he’d started cleaning properly even two years earlier, I could have saved some of those teeth,’ Mrs Ronchetti clicked to another photograph. ‘Look! Tooth decay at its finest!’
Like many obsessions, it began innocuously. Pat made an appointment to replace her then one-and-only crown, which she’d managed to crack on a salmon and cream-cheese bagel.
I should have heard warning bells when I spotted her leaving the florist carrying a bouquet of lilies, pink rosebuds and sprays of baby’s breath. The bunch was so enormous I only recognised her from her knees downwards – corduroy trousers running into Clarks tasselled loafers.
‘Who are the flowers for?’ I’d asked.
‘Mrs Ronchetti. She’s done a fabulous job,’ Pat lowered the bouquet and bared her teeth.
By the following morning, the new crown was uncomfortable. Mrs Ronchetti was forced to find an emergency window in her hectic schedule, between a multiple extraction and a scale and polish. Several hours later, Pat returned. Her crown was still uncomfortable but she had been reassured it would settle down in time.
‘I jumped the gum,’ she said. ‘I mean “gun”.’
‘You jumped the gun buying her an unnecessarily large bouquet.’
‘Not at all. I have complete faith in the woman. I’ve made another appointment to have my metal fillings changed for white ones.’
‘Aren’t they more expensive?’
She nodded. ‘But cosmetically appealing. Mrs Ronchetti showed me before and after pictures of Cheryl Cole and Justin Bieber.’
‘You don’t look like either of them.’
Pat had looked smug. ‘But I could do.’
From a survey encouraging us to take more care of our teeth, it appears that nearly five million people in the UK will never visit a dentist. Seven per cent still prefer to do it themselves, as in the ancient arts of tooth wobbling, tying string between molar and doorknob, and strategically placing chewing gum to fill the gaps.
Please can we have another survey to see how historically they got on? Did many of that five million just grow older, with pleasant smiles intact and several thousand pounds better off?
My last dentist, now retired, only ever gave me a clean, polish and short discussion about where best to park in Crouch End.
‘Not bad,’ he’d say in a soothing tone. ‘Some movement but that’s only to be expected.’
Which was exactly what I needed to hear, being one of the 15 per cent of patients suffering from ‘extreme dentist anxiety’. Reassured I was in and out within a few minutes at the cost of a mere ten pounds.
Yes, Mrs Ronchetti has worked wonders but I have had to forego M&S patterned toilet rolls, bottles of Gordon’s Gordon’s gin and to limit the times I take my cat, Lettuce, to the vet. My dental bills to date represent the deposit on a twobedroomed bungalow. Dentists (rather like vets) can nowadays be guaranteed to find something in that very small orifice that is one’s mouth, which will need capping, crowning, filling, filing or pulling.
Over to my neighbour, Ted, who has been a patient of Mr Lloyd’s at the end of our road since time immemorial.
I asked him, ‘Ted, how can you bear to trust the health of your teeth to a man who has grubby net curtains?’
Ted, tersely: ‘Mr Lloyd isn’t there to give me tips on laundry.’
‘And does he provide a hygienist?’
‘What would that be?’
‘Someone who gives advice on oral health.’
‘Oral health!’ Ted bellows. ‘I’m 83 with all my own teeth. A pox on oral health!’
Pat arrived back from a tête-à-tête with Mrs Ronchetti, costing her £43. ‘We’ve had a riveting discussion on receding gums.’ She looked hopefully at me as if I too might like to discuss receding gums.
I had nothing to say on the subject.
‘Oh, come on.’ She settled herself at my kitchen table. ‘Didn’t we have a fine old conversation last year when you had that bridgework done? I recall you saying that having a tooth removed was like hearing a tree falling to the forest floor.’
I flashed my four-figure smile at her. ‘That was rather poetic of me. OK, let’s talk teeth!’
VG Lee will be performing her unique take on life after 60 at Polari on 28 February, 7.45pm at the Royal Festival Hall, London SE1: 0844-875 0073, www.southbankcentre.co.uk