Heavenly Beverley : A Surprisingly Productive Day

There are few appointments that I dislike more than going to the dentist. Our latest plaque-fighter is the ultra-calm, ultra-accommodating and ultra-patient Vincent at Avon Valley Dentists up in Northam. We have been fortunate enough to be his clients for a few years and his fame has spread to such an extent that Vincent now commands a waiting list for his personal services.

I can say that I have a rather pathological fear of the dentistry profession in general. One dentist once asked me if I was feeling alright during a routine scale and clean. With my hands clutched into a tight ball in my lap, my eyes firmly shut and every fibre of my being both alert and alarmed, I responded that I was fine, thank you. The dentist's reply was gold. "Interesting...because we're going to have to insert a snorkel in your ear for breathing purposes, due to the amount of spit you're producing..."

There are certain events in my childhood that have remained with me to this day. One of these moments was being slapped across the face with the dentist's open hand. His name was Mr Sneezebee. I have never forgotten. I can smell his dimly lit room, I can see the white Venetians and the insipid pale blue of his sticky plastic reclining chair. I was about four or five and I was crying, due to sheer terror. I have no idea whether Mum was even with me and I never spoke about the incident with her.

When I was born, five minutes early, in 1961 Melbourne, some bright spark had decreed all premature babies by given Tetracycline. Although not a disaster on the scale of Thalidomide, the drug caused all my baby teeth to decay. Some lucky souls had their adult teeth affected as well.

So, visits to the dentist were deemed necessary throughout my childhood. The Slap was bad enough, but my battle with motion sickness, which I usually lost during every trip, only added to my misery. I remember, as an adult, asking Mum why she never gave me any of the over-the-counter travel sickness preparations. She shrugged and replied "I assumed you'd grow out of it".

At eleven years of age, very frequent orthodontics were added to a dental practitioner climbing into my mouth. As I possessed "the worst overbite ever seen", I joined the cattle call of metal-mouthed patients being seen every six weeks for six years. First in, first served. We would be lined up in a string of dentist chairs waiting for the orthodontist of the day to inspect our teeth and inner cavities. I became thoroughly irritated with the relentless request "just a bit wider", which inevitably resulted in splits in the corners of my mouth. Some bored student waiting his turn had engraved "Help, I'm being attacked by a mad orthodontist!" with a compass point into the arm of one chair. I would come away from each appointment with freshly tightened braces, wobbly and aching teeth and a new crop of ulcers.

I eventually threw my last retainer out just before I left home to start nursing. I vowed not to step foot inside a dentist's or orthodontist's rooms for as long as possible. After my wisdom teeth were removed when I was nineteen, I would go years between dental reviews.

Nobody warns anyone else that as we all age, bits of us malfunction, droop, drop off or need ongoing and unwelcome maintenance. Having to visit the dentist every six months would have been all the more torturous if not for Vincent. Every time I force myself into his domain, Vincent smiles indulgently, explains everything as he is going along and allows Michael to remain as foot masseur to take my mind off the procedures. Which I reciprocate when Michael has his turn in the chair. Two days ago, Vincent repaired the chips on the bottom of my two front teeth and gave me a clean and polish. No injections and easily-managed discomfort. I have had those chips for ten years and have always been thoroughly self-conscious of them. Vincent, for a split second, was transformed into My Hero. I might even return next time of my own Free Will.

After Michael's filling, clean and polish, we ventured out for breakfast in Northam. Apart from an unpredictable left side of his mouth, we both felt regenerated and ready for action. After a hearty meal at River's Edge Cafe, we organised the building insurance for the Stoneville property with the wonderful Kathy at Aviso and decided to go forth to the Big Smoke for haircuts and to touch up the murky grey strands visible on my otherwise bright red head.

What an afternoon. Hair Stylist to the Stars Sharon, took hold of my Julius Sumner Miller hair and fashioned me an almost Audrey Hepburn pixie cut. Michael's hair was altered from hairstyle by power point to agreeably handsome. Plus my head was massaged by the eager child apprentice and we enjoyed complimentary tea and coffee. Final task of the day, taking possession of the Red Box from Sandra, was achieved whilst I was being beautified.

The Red Box is one of those family possessions that is held in true reverence. Within its confines are all that remains of the lives of Lucky and Judy, Michael's Mum and Dad. Plus, original birth certificates of all the "children", ancient invoices, photographs and sundry other paperwork from throughout the ages. An absolute treasure that we are looking forward to exploring.

Out into the late afternoon sunshine. We filled Goldie with fuel, turned her eastwards, enjoyed ice-creams and Headed for the Hills. We arrived home to the ecstatic dogs, the disdainfully disinterested Madame Cat and the exceedingly vocal Pirate Parrot.

An excellent and relatively stress-free expedition.