Quarantine really put a damper on comedy, didn’t it? For what seemed like ages, nobody walked into a bar. But with the pandemic seemingly winding to a close in our neck of the woods I decided it was time to get out and about a bit and enjoy the pleasures that Cheam High Street has to offer on a Saturday night. Okay, so a pint or two in The Railway and a shish kebab from the Village Grill can hardly compete with champagne and caviar at the Ritz followed by baccarat on the tables at Monte Carlo, but at least we were home in time for the Strictly results on the telly. Luckily Yannie and I and all of our nearest and dearest survived the pandemic with no ill effects. I realise that vaccinations are a real sticking point with many but we were double jabbed and will certainly be having a winter booster -mine will be a triple gin and tonic, straight into a vein. But now that things are sort of getting back to normal we all have to start looking after ourselves better. In my case it meant bracing myself and taking a trip to the dentist, something I have never been enamelled of. I had to go, actually, because I chipped a tooth on a healthy pack of pork scratchings and the pain was excruciating. I’m ashamed to say that my last visit to the dentist was years ago, and this one turned out to be a bit of an eye-opener. When I tried to make an appointment with Mr. Frost, my dentist in Epsom for the last thirty years, I was told he had retired at the start of the pandemic. I hope they put a little plaque up for him. So now I had a new dentist, and that is frightening in itself because you don’t know whether they are going to be calm and caring or a demon with a drill. Asking “Is it safe?” as you sit in the chair is not a wise option.
Before all that, though, I had to go through all these “Have you sneezed in the last ten days?” questions with the girl on the reception desk and noted that she cunningly stood me in front of a mirror so that I couldn’t get away with crossing my fingers behind my back when I said no. Then I was ushered into the waiting room which seemed to have been redesigned by Ikea. There were just three chairs in there because of social distancing, and not a copy of Punch, Country Life or Razzle in sight to take my mind off the ordeal ahead. Luckily they didn’t keep me waiting long, and I was introduced to a nice young chap of about 12 who was to be my dentist from now on, or at least until all my teeth fall out from old age and too many pork scratchings. “Are we using an electric toothbrush?” he asked me. “I am,” I replied, “don’t know about you.”