Where do I even start?
Picture this: I’ve got back-to-back appointments — dentist first, hygienist second. The dentist? Lovely bloke. Professional, thorough, the kind of guy you’d trust with your teeth and your Netflix password. I left his chair feeling calm, informed, and optimistic about my oral future.
Then I stepped into the next room… and straight into The Butcher of Trentham!
Before I could even close the door, I was hit with: “Why are you late?” — said with all the warmth of a parking warden on a rainy Monday. I tried to explain I’d just escaped from the dentist’s chair, but she cut me off mid-sentence with, “Well, I won’t have time now, I’ll just do what I can.”
What followed can only be described as a gum-based assault. I’m fairly sure she mistook my mouth for a training dummy at dental boot camp. Her assistant looked terrified, I looked like an extra from a vampire movie, and the hygienist looked like she was one bad day away from starting a heavy metal band called “The Plaque Attackers.”
At one point she asked me to sniff the equipment. I don’t know what dental school that came from, but I’m fairly sure it wasn’t Hogwarts.
Somewhere between the third stab of pain and my second internal scream, she said, “That’ll be an extra £5 for this tool I need.” Ma’am, I can’t speak — my mouth is a blood fountain and you’re upselling me like a budget airline charging for oxygen!
Finally, after what felt like surviving a medieval torture scene, I stumbled to reception — dazed, drooling, and down £5 for the mystery gum gadget. Then came the cherry on top: £40 for another appointment because I was “late.”
So in summary: gums destroyed, wallet lighter, dignity questionable — and to top it off, I pay nearly £200 a year for this privilege.
If you fancy a thriller-horror experience with bonus blood and a surprise surcharge, the hygienist at Trentham is your gal. Otherwise, stick with the dentist — or a soothing YouTube ASMR video.