Over the years, Maureen and I had reached a sustained accommodation.
It was a sort of ‘don’t-ask-don’t-tell’ arrangement. If she wished to express mild disapproval, she would achieve it in the way that Jeeves might have a century before, with one eyebrow arched a mere quarter of an inch higher than the other, or a momentary pause in the flow of conversation. If there was ever so much as a frisson of tension between us, I don’t remember it.
Far more united us than divided us, to be sure, but we parceled out any possible areas of difference with a decorum for which the British have rightly become famous.
But now Maureen has gone. The metaphorical dogs have barked, and the caravan has moved on.
She has gone to where Maureens go, and yesterday evening was my first encounter with her replacement.
‘You come from Otago?’ I said, by way of conversation, having gleaned this nugget rom the plaque on the door.
‘No. I just studied there,’ she replied, ‘Now, open wide.’
I asked if she knew Dan Carter. Everyone from New Zealand knows Dan Carter. For an instant, I could imagine her asking him to open wide; or Jona Lomu, or Richie McCaw, or Beauden Barrett. She was having none of it.
So I did as she said, and waited for any sharp intake of breath that might have indicated that the contents of my mouth had failed to pass muster.
‘Do you floss?’ she asked, after an uncomfortable silence. It was a funny thing to ask, as it must have been perfectly clear to someone who had studied at the Otago Dental School that I hadn’t flossed, not this year, or any year before it. I come from a long line of proud Grenville non-flossers, and it was over this very reality that Maureen and I had reached our comfortable modus operandi.
‘Not recently,’ I said, once the sharp prong thing was out of my mouth and I could speak. I admit that, whilst fundamentally truthful, this statement was probably not entirely helpful.
‘I don’t like to see food in my patients’ mouths,’ she contributed, matter-of-factly, as if she was admiring a bunch of daffodils or a particularly fine Merino sheep. ‘Let’s see if we can dispose of it by the next appointment.’ Momentarily, I wondered if she was giving me 6 months to get rid of what was currently in my mouth, but I suspect she was talking about the habit, rather than the actual nutrition involved.
‘Do you smoke?’ she asked, and I replied that I hadn’t, since January 2001.
‘Sugar in your beverages?’. Same answer, only more recent. I told her that I loved the word ‘beverages,’ and didn’t come across it nearly often enough.
‘Do you drink alcohol?’ was the third question. I answered that I did, and did so regularly.
‘Is this a problem for you?’ she asked, again with a lightness of touch that suggested she was ensuring my local wine merchant wasn’t letting me down, rather than checking whether I was generally to be found horizontal. I left enough pause for her to get the prong out of my mouth, which she sadly misinterpreted as confirmation that it was.
‘Help is available,’ she said, ‘I can write to your GP to get it going.’
The rest of the appointment went well, and I felt that we had a meeting of minds over a) the inherent unfairness of the final over of the 2019 Cricket World Cup, and b) the general state of my teeth. She did some industrial flossing for me, and then that hard miniature revolving brush polishing that is surely why we all go to the dentist. After I had rinsed my mouth out and agreed, in what is a well-oiled ritual, to turn over a new leaf, I put on my fleece and headed for the door.
‘Thanks so much,’ I said, ‘It’s been nice to meet you’. It had. She is delightful.
‘You, too,’ she said. ‘Just think about that GP letter, and let me know.’
Who says customer service is dead?
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