Waiting for a filling…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s instruction is to handle it with tongs for the first hour, and then carefully drop the coconuts into the round holes.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Here is another recycled post from those murky days about a year or so ago when my blog was on Myspace.

At my dentists, (you may recall that I was there recently, I’m fine now – thanks for asking!) the waiting room is square in plan, with a long reception desk, with two or three receptionists behind it, along one wall. The waiting patients sit in rows facing the desk, like an audience in a theatre facing the stage.
Last Tuesday the room was almost full. People waited. They stared at the walls, which feature colourful dental implant advertisements, scary ‘prompt payment’ notices, and ‘famous footballer patient’ autographed photos; magazines rustled, phones rang and were answered, two small children ran around squealing and stamping their little well shod feet, all was as normal. Time passed, those familiar intermittent buzzing and hollow sucking sounds could be heard echoing up the corridor from the open door of the dentist’s torture room at the end.
Suddenly one of the receptionists jumped up onto the desk, lifted her head, raised her arms, showed us her pink palms, and addressed the crowd…
‘Good afternoon everyone, and welcome! I’d like to start by singing you a short selection from Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s wonderful musical ‘Evita’.’
She noisily cleared her throat, paused dramatically, and then giving a confident white-toothed smile – ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina, the truth is I, never left you…’
The patients gaped in disbelief. Some wag from the back stood up and shouted, ‘I’d rather have a root canal job than this!’ One or two of the people sitting around him sharply told him to keep quiet, and to sit down… The singing continued…
Eventually one of the dentists came out, still holding someone’s pink and white upper denture in his hand, and called the police, but when two officers arrived a minutes or so later they stopped in their tracks and stood transfixed, gawping open-mouthed at the singing receptionist. After a few moments consideration, they both enthusiastically joined in on the harmonies. After a while we all became resigned to the situation and joined in too. It was a marvellous afternoon!

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in art, music, observations, surrealism and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Waiting for a filling…

  1. Priya says:

    Ha ha. Please tell me this is not fiction!

Leave a Reply to Dave Whatt Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s