dentist – don't confuse the narrator

cruel deception

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover. But surely, when it’s a book you have read and loved but don’t own a copy of, when you serendipitously find one in a secondhand bookshop you can give silent thanks to Seshat, Sant Jordi, or other bookish divinities and venerable figures, and promise yourself the pleasure of revisiting beloved places and renewing acquaintance with long-lost friends?

Well, maybe. That’s certainly what I thought would happen when I found a copy of Elizabeth Goudge’s A City of Bells last weekend.
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tooth in advertising

Having suffered at the hands of the dentist yesterday – and I do suffer, with the only consolation that, as a writer, I may later find it useful to know what it feels like to have hysterics – I was glad to see that the old Especialidades Juanse tiles are still in place in Madrid’s Malasaña district.
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lavender-scented worries

I’ll admit it: I’m terrified of the dentist. Not any particular dentist. All dentists. And of all dental procedures, including simple check ups. The only time I’ve had hysterics was in the dentist’s chair.

Trying to make the dental practice more appealing?

Looking back, I’d say it was worth it, as I now have some personal knowledge of hyperventilating, of the pins and needles effect in the limbs – or “tingling in the extremities”, as I think it’s called in the textbooks – and of the complete inability to stop sobbing long enough to explain that I was fully aware of how silly I was being.

Surely this sort of experience has to be beneficial for someone who wants to be able to write from different points of view?
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