I ended up at the dentist as a result of going a few rounds with a gang of ruffians. If you are too young to know what a "ruffian" is, think "gangsta" but with his trousers pulled up properly and probably not wearing a cap backwards.
There were, of course, 10 of them, or maybe it was 12, and I was protecting a young lady with a baby. Come to think of it, I think she had a puppy in her arms as well. And the takings from the charity shop where she volunteers. And a Big Mac for her little old grandma, who was celebrating her 100th birthday that day.
So you get the picture. I'm defending all things good.
And I'm in there dishing it out like a real man, occasionally sliding over a car bonnet (as you do), coming up with super cool one-liners ("Do ya feel lucky, punk?" - sorry Clint) and suddenly I cop one right in the chops.
Of course, that previous bit is what is known in the trade as "journalistic licence" or "not letting the facts get in the way of a good story". Such yarns are usually reserved for the pub or ACC forms.
But it sounds a lot better than what actually happened. I stepped off a ladder and hit the ground hard, causing an old filling to jump out of its seat and head for the exit.
Now, as my smile is as important to me as my six-pack abs, magnificent shoulders and tight buns (ahem), I decided remedial action was immediately required.
And as luck would have it, it was too wet for my dentist to be "on a course" and he was up for the challenge.
Now I am reluctant to suggest going to the dentist is like going on a cruise but I have to say I felt quite relaxed as I laid back in the deckchair, er I mean dentist's chair, as the numbing agent worked its magic around the messy molar.
I cared not that my nasal hairs, the bane of all us blokes over 50, were now on full display and presumably extending upwards in search of sunlight. It must be soooo hard for dentists to keep a straight face and not yank one just for the hell of it.
But I digress.
I closed my eyes as the gentle spray of the ocean occasionally teased my cheek. At least it feltlike the ocean. In the background I could hear a whir, presumably the air-conditioning in my cabin, as I drifted a little with the waves.
"We'll be 20 minutes," said the captain over the intercom, as the warm sun on my face threatened to send me off into a deep sleep as we cruised into Acapulco ...-
"And you're done," said my dentist, jolting me from the precipice of a pleasant mid-morning nap.
I opened my eyes quickly to find the sun was in fact the fluorescent light above my head and any rinsing of the mouth in the next few seconds would most definitely not be with the champagne I had imagined beside me in an ice bucket only a minute or two earlier.
The cruise over, I headed for the exit and marvelled at the speed and comparative comfort with which the operation had taken place.
Not that long ago, the victim, oops I mean patient, was lashed to a chair and waited in anticipation as the dentist, unseen somewhere in the shadows, revved up an old chainsaw just for a giggle.
Nowdays dentists can use a special light to initiate a reaction in the filling material to immediately harden it. This is done in layers, like building a wall. Any imperfections on the filled tooth can then be shaped by the dentist, who presumably could now legitimately be called a dentist/ bricklayer/ sculptor.
Yep, technology sure is remarkable. And as I say, it all came with no pain. Mind you, I haven't seen the bill yet.
Kevin Page has been a journalist for 34 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.
