friggatriskaidekaphobia

No such word. Wrong. Triskaidekaphobia is fear of the number 13 and friggatriskaidekaphobia is fear of Friday the thirteenth. It is such a Friday and I’m off to the dentist. Were I not an arch-sceptic, I might fear the worst.

I break a tooth four days ago. What better time for a tooth to succumb than just before a scheduled visit made weeks ago, to check the progress of my adjusted denture? The surgery rings to remind me of my visit. I report my broken tooth. My appointment duration is insufficient to deal with it. They ring back. The appointment following mine cancelled. My luck is in.

Marzena wags her finger at me when I tell her a nut broke my tooth. “You cannot eat nuts.”

“I know. I forgot. Forgive me. I won’t do it again.”

“Lie down in the chair and I will see what I can do.”

What she can do is rip out the cracked wreckage in there—the tooth already has ten pins in it, she says (surely an exaggeration)—and replace the pins and build another sort-of tooth. Clamps and wedges are involved. The ramming of the wedges hurts like buggery.

“You are practising your deep breathing,” she observes. “I can numb it up for you.”

“N-nn, n-nn.” If I could speak, I would tell her I’m a cyclist, so I know and relish pain. The clamp falls off and she has to reseat the wedges. Murder.

As I depart she promises me pain and maybe follow-up infection or toothache. “I had to go very deep,” she says, “near the nerve. Don’t eat anything for two hours.” The final indignity. Pain and starvation.

“I will see you in a fortnight.” This is a dentist’s joke at the expense of those of us who never make it to the next scheduled appointment without some dental disaster. The receptionist relieves me of $286.50 for a five-surface filling.

Later I reflect on my good fortune: none of the predicted pain happens, the JRT and the new cat are pleased to see me when I get home, the emailed quote for the new car I’m considering is cheaper than anticipated.

On the radio I hear that this particular July has five Fridays, five Saturdays and five Sundays. This last occurred 823 years ago. Surely not.

I survive friggatriskaidekaphobia till 7:35pm. The Blues run out on the park, get walloped, their finals aspirations consigned to history with eight miserable matches still to play.

    

Rock on.