I have the most wonderful dentist. He’s gentle and quite attractive – even from an upside angle looking up at his nostrils. He’s also very kind and forever apologising, even when he’s trying to make you more comfortable in the chair. And you never feel a thing.

So why do I dread seeing him?

Why does just the thought of dental treatment – even a simple scale and polish – bring me out in a cold sweat?

While out for a meal with friends the other night, my fork disturbed something alien on my plate. Partly hidden by mixed kebab, it made a distinctive metallic ‘clunking’ sound against the dish surface and everyone stopped ‘mid-chew’ as I squealed my disgust.

“I think it’s a tooth,� exclaimed friend Phil as he deftly transferred the offending object to his plate and examined it closely with knife and fork. You could see everyone’s tongues doing a circular tour to check out their own molar landscape.

“I know – it’s mine,� I muttered as I retrieved it from his plate under the horrified gaze of my fellow diners.

Monday morning arrives and I call the dental surgery. I can feel my palms sweating and my heart racing and I’m praying they don’t have any appointments for the foreseeable future. I so dread the thought of that long, thin needle that I’d sooner suffer the indignity of slurping my tea through a lopsided jaw than submit to the chair.

So if you know of any remedies for getting me over this phobia, I’d love to hear from you. But please! Don’t suggest acupuncture!

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