I have been to the dental hygienist for my three monthly descale, polish and chiding. I hate the hygienist. Not because she is nasty. In fact she is very nice. And she is kind and takes care not to hurt me any more than is strictly necessary to ensure that I will have at least a few of my own yellowing teeth when the family ship me off to the nursing home in my latter years.
No. The reason I detest her is that she always ask me if I have been flossing, in a way which makes it absolutely clear that she knows perfectly well that I have not been flossing, but somehow she can’t bring herself to accuse me of this most heinous of dental crimes.
The truth is that I mean to floss. I am full of good flossing intentions. I recognise it, in theory, as a good idea. But in practice, when it comes to flossing time, dog-tired after a day of work and chasing after the weans, flossing takes on a difficulty well up there with neurosurgery.
I’m sorry Ms Hygienist. I am an interdental failure.
Nightcap
15 years ago
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