Posted by: Paul | May 18, 2010


I’ve never met anyone who enjoys going to the dentist. Have you? If that’s the case, then who would be a dentist by choice as a career? Intentionally making coming to see you a chore at best and absolutely terrfying at worst, and for most people an uncomfortable experience we can’t wait to be done with?

As I was sat in the chair this morning, carrying out the usual routine of spending ten minutes attempting to divorce mind from body, something struck me. With visits every six months, I see my dentist more than I see some of my friends. Sobering thought that. What’s wrong with this picture – am I going to the dentist too often, or are there people I should be making much more of an effort with? Undoubtedly the latter.

Good then, that I get on very well with my dentist, a nice chap called Mark. We’re not exactly friends – after all, we only see each other every six months (seems like it has to be a maximum of once a year to qualify) – but in the unlikely event that he were to suggest it I think I would go for a beer with him. I think of that as the yardstick for people in whose company I could comfortably spend time – dentist or not.


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