Thursday morning. I trudge towards the dentists, my tongue exploring the big hole in a lower-eastside molar, caused by a toffee pulling a filling out six weeks ago. I feel, when the dentist finally fills the hole, that my tongue will miss it terribly. And I think, as ever in these situations, of my grandfather, who had all his teeth pulled out at the age of forty so he could have done with dentists for good.
Three days later, I’m back walking in the same direction. The dentist drilled a bigger hole in the tooth, and refilled it. The filling fell out the next day. My tongue is pleased (more new stuff to explore!) but I’m not. I fear more drilling.
I’m sat down and my fears are fulfilled when the guy whips out a silver syringe and jabs it into my gum. While we wait for the anaesthetic to take hold we continue our last week’s discussion about the Phoenix development. He feels Lewes needs more shops, and that the North Street area is so run down something drastic needs to be done. I worry about the impact of so many new buildings on such a little town. He starts his digging: not that near-friendly chug-chug-chugger of a drill, but its nastier high-pitched sister. He makes a series of points in favour of the development, which I am unable to counter. The pain is of the drill is unspeakable, and I have a large clamp in my mouth. “Stop tensing up,” he says. Easier said. Dustin Hoffman comes to mind.
Afterwards I sit in my office, my face numbed up, my tongue too punch-drunk to move. And I realise something. If the Phoenix Industrial Estate were a set of teeth, many of them would be rotten to their roots. Whatever happens, there’s a lot of drilling to be done. But do we really need a my-granddad sort of solution? AL