I booked my first dental appointment in five years earlier after waking up with not one but two toothaches.

Five years, man. I hope she can find the teeth under the dust.

But I think the length of time that has elapsed between visits is largely attributable to my last experience.

I was booked in for an extraction and a clean and I was pretty tense tense about the former. However, I needn't have been because the tooth was whipped out with the minimum of fuss and no small degree of efficiency.

Somewhat relieved, I moved from the hard world of needles and drills into the softer world of fuzzy brushes and smiles.

The hygienist was a pleasant-looking woman of middle years, not unattractive, with a sunny disposition. I immediately felt at ease and, with the edginess of the previous session dissipating away, I settled down into the chair and began making happy small talk. She set to work and, as the brushes tickled my gums, I reached up in content satisfaction and grasped the back of the headrest. The hygienist smiled down on me and I, with a mouthful of benign instruments, smiled up at her. All was well.

At least it was until, some fifteen minutes later, I lazily pulled my hands from the headrest and felt it collapse away beneath me. It only took me a nanosecond to realise I hadn't been holding the headrest at all. I had been holding her thighs.

I had to lie there for another five minutes, flushed bright red with a harsh, inescapable light in my face, as she finished off. I've never missed a drill and a pair of pliers so much in my life. Who knew all that poise and decorum had been condensed into that one wisdom tooth?