I bloody hate visiting my Dental Hygienist.
This is because am not Particularly Partial to having painful exploration of mouth, and hearing Tutt Tutt'ing as rubbery fingers make their squeaky way round my molars, forcing my mouth open in position that is, quite frankly, wide enough to fit a small automobile in.
My teeth are, after all, My Teeth.
I think my Hygienist thinks they are Hers.
She almost weeps as she stabs at them with what appears to be an Extremely Sharp Utensil.
'Well, have you Flossed?'
Have I 'eck.
Since my last visit to her six months ago I flossed like Mad Woman for six weeks. Urged my husband to Floss. Friends to Floss. Strangers to Floss.
I was Floss Queen. Smug too. Looking in mouths for signs of Flossing.
'Ah.' I'd think. 'That Person Does Not Floss. Look at those Yellow Bits.'
Well. Time passed. And the flossing phase was over. Each night I'd look at that damned little plastic floss container and feel Floss Guilty. To make up for it I'd swill a bit of Mouth Wash round the old tombstones. Grin maniacally in the mirror. Grimace to show the teeth at the back.
And not Floss.
But now its time to see the Hygienist Again.
Feel like rather Cross and Grumpy Adolescent.
Have dusted the floss container and flossed last night. Sulkily.
And again this morning.
HATE going to my Hygienist.
I go next week.
Bet she Sighs Heavily and asks,
Well, have you Flossed?
Have I 'eck.