My dentist is Spanish.

My dentist is Spanish. His name is Mr Remos. He wanted to know if I had much nervousness. I don't usually, but this time I did. He wanted to "'splain to me" that I was "not the teethbrushing correctively", and that I had "one or two little pads of deacying" but that they were "too small to fill up with... stuff."

He x-rayed me a couple of times for no reason he cared to divulge (or if he did, I didn't catch it). Just to make me feel extra safe and secure, he would run to the corner of the room to join his two assistants (always worrying when your dentist needs that much assistance) before far too emphatically pointing at one of them and exclaiming "Go!" The subsequent slight humming noise the machine made was a bit of an anticlimax.

Last time I went to the dentist, I hadn't been for five years and everything was fine. This time I've left it six months and I'm riddled with decay. There's a lesson there for us all, but I don't know what it is.

Oh yeah - one more thing - hello! I'm new.