The Dentist

The smell hit me before the vision. Minding my own business - or trying to whilst nervously awaiting the dentist - my head jerked up quickly as it intruded my nostrils. Imagine the sharpness of cheap vinegar, perhaps used to clean a public toilet combined with an out-of-date egg sandwich and it might offer some description. Vile.

He shuffled in through the doorway like a wounded soldier, a slight limp which brushed the carpet as he slowly inched towards the receptionist. I don't know why, but I looked at the shoes before the face. A battered pair of Adidas ZX750s - the choice of the 90s football terraces - which were long past any sensible foot protection hung sadly from below some tattered, red tracksuit bottoms. They looked as though somebody had taken a cheese grater to the toes, shredded and revealing. Tragic really.

The tracksuit bottoms were overly baggy and covered in what looked like an oil slick, with a waist that was stretched beyond its limit and hanging limply from stick-thin legs. And no top. Yes, naked and hunched with scabbed skin leaking yellow fluid that will forever haunt my dreams. The ribcage was pressed tightly against the stretched, hairless skin and resting on sloped shoulders lay greased, red hair that was long overdue a good scrub.

The smell seemed to emanate from a mouth that was slightly gaped, a swollen slug-like tongue hanging between chapped and crusted lips. The eyes were almost sleeping, dusty eyelashes that appeared to be stuck together with an orange, dried substance. And he was strangely silent, just the merest of breathing could be heard.

And as he reached the receptionist, long fingers bearing curved, yellow talon-like fingernails aggressively pushed the bell. And from those lips came the immortal words: "Have you got any slots for next week please?".