I hate going to the dentist. Not for the typical reason of real or imagined pain, but rather the judgement I always face from the dental assistant. Like Groundhog Day, our interaction has become rebarbative and predictable. After socially-mandated graces, the assessment:
"You have a lot of fillings."
I don't even think I have a higher than average count of them (at least according to my very brief, unscientific Google research) but her reminding me of this with no further professional advice or edict does nothing to change the situation. I am aware of the fact that I have a few fillings. I am also aware of the fact that I love sugary sweets and am addicted to them like the legal heroin they are. Praise modern dentistry for allowing me to continue this unhealthy relationship while retaining gleaming pearly whites! And so, as we perform this "foxtrot" year in and year out, I revert to the blood of my stiff-lipped British forefathers, state an emphatic "alright" and sink into the dentist's chair while silently wishing for a cloak of invisibility.
When my dentist arrives, the man with all the sharp tools and instruments, I am elated. He's a friendly, interesting dude. Knowledgable. Never condescending. Well travelled. On my most recent visit, we discussed Dubai. He's visited a few times. Gave advice on what to see and what to do and then offered to introduce me to a contact of his living there.
A contact that, by sheer chance, operates a business in the design field!
A contact that wants to show me "the real Dubai"!!
A contact that may, perhaps, know someone who will let me drive their Ferrari!!!
My world continues to get smaller. And the dentist's office proves a place of business beyond restoring enamel and making me feel guilty for eating too many Mars bars.
P.S. - no cavities!!!!!