OK, it's been a long time since I last visited a dentist, and I'm not surprised that I'm out of touch, but I never realised how much things had changed.
In my day, or at least when I last went to the dentist in the provinces, there were established rules: the dentist was a man, and his assistant was pert young woman. This was balance things out. Lady patients were reassured by the presence of the young woman, as an insurance against 'over-familiarity' on the dentist's part, acting like some kind of junior umpire.
For the chaps, she was there partly as an incentive to visit, but also to ease the tension of being violated in a confined space by another man. The fact that the young lovely was taking part gave the whole sordid business a rather decadent but acceptable-in-a-louche way credibility, as one left as the reluctant partner in this threesome feeling sore, but sophisticated in a man-of-the-world sort of way.
Equally, the introduction of the hygenist, always a woman (one assumes that they were considered too pretty to become a dentist), was a welcome development at the surgery, offering 'extras' to those so inclined. Back in Dorset, our local cutie had her own little cubicle at the top of the house, and one would be treated to a little frisson of anticipation as she invited the lucky client to follow her and her excellently crafted arse up the steep stairs into her fully-equipped boudoir.
After a little small-talk she'd get down to business; a little of the rough stuff to start with, but finishing with an expert oral buffing to leave a chap with a satisfied smile on his face.
How times have changed!
Tonight at my new dentist in the big city, things appeared to be normal enough. Middle-aged Sri Lankan male as dentist, assisted by a sultry, but slightly unkempt-in-a-provocative way young Sri Lankan woman, whose abundant jet black bible black crow black hair was threatening to tumble out of her alice-band as a promise of things to come, should one's luck be in. All perfectly acceptable.
But then, having coerced me into his chair and done his worst, including the teeth-clenching xray bit, Mr Dentist sends me downstairs to the hygenist, where my many years of drinking eight pints of black tea a day had to be addressed.
Reader, imagine my horror to discover that he had sent me to meet a male hygenist! To be precise, a Polish male hygenist and his equally male Polish assistant! Big fellows, overpowering me in what appeared to be a broom cupboard! I mean, what's that all about? OK, the Polish/polish bit is a great pun, but how far should dentistry take these things?
Now, I have nothing against the Poles, or homosexuals; God knows we all need plumbers and interior designers, but I didn't even know Poland had homosexuals! Nobody talks about Polish gays? I mean, ALL Polish men have moustaches, how could anyone tell?
Actually, just to confuse things, neither had a moustache, but they were both definately Polish, they were both immaculately groomed, and were both a little too comfortable with working together in an obscenely small room.
Also the hygenist was a little too masterful for my liking, and I'm sure he took far longer in my gaping orifice than was necessary or decent! And as for that burly assistant, trying to gag me with his utensil!
In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, when it was over I was rinsing and spitting like nobody's business! And, in these post NHS days, I had to pay for it. Sir, I have never paid for it in my life!
Mind, you, they did a lovely job, and I commend their discretion, but I don't think I'm ready to tell anyone.
Yes, times have changed, and I'm not sure I'm ready for this brave new world where just anything goes. Next time I'm staying home with the pliers and the brandy.
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