3 hours ago
5
I was at the dentist’s, because that’s where I always am at the moment, lying there, mouth full of stuff, thinking: “This is just a phase and not the new normal.” The conversation is one-sided by necessity, which is the only saving grace of being there at all, that window into a world where I’m not constantly talking and get to find out what other people are interested in for a change. No, there’s one other saving grace: I still have teeth.
And maybe it’s part of the training, or maybe he’s just a very cheerful guy, but the dentist is an enthusiast. He loves all the seasons and the way a composite filling can stave off recession around the upper canines. He loves tea, coffee, red wine and turmeric; he loves fizzy drinks of all kinds, as a relatable prelude to the news that I have to stop consuming them. It would be hard to be warned off those things by someone who didn’t understand how nice they were. He determinedly never talks about the events of the world, but he doesn’t like a lot of silence, either, and that’s how we landed on the topic of the time he bought a Ferrari.
It was an emotional journey, starting with three decades of dreaming of a Ferrari. If I’d had the power of speech, I’d have probably gated off his openness by accident, with an observation such as: “Haven’t you just given yourself the gift of horrendous anxiety? It’s an incredibly big-ticket item that any hoodlum on a Lime bike could lay waste to without even meaning to.”
Then I wouldn’t have got to hear about the day he picked it up and drove it home, and how his kids were standing outside with a “Welcome to your new home, Ferrari” sign, which was kind of hilarious, and I couldn’t even find it in myself to judge the world of the sports car. All I was really thinking was: this is my fault. If only I could go back in time, and floss, and everyone like me could do the same, my dentist would most likely have a Prius.
Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist
