As a child, my dentist was a sadist. A cross between Nana Mouskouri and Eric Morecambe, he gave me a filling every six months whether I needed one or not. As well as torturing me in a Marathon Man stylie, he also victimised my poor brother whom he insisted on calling ‘Jane’. Why oh why didn’t my mother step in and remove us from this abusive situation? Having signed up with a new dentist recently, who, in a cruel twist of fate is Greek, I now realise that all dentists are evil. Mr Poppadopolous never smiles, is very rough with his implements and, despite him speaking a sort of hybrid English/Greek, makes no sense whatsoever. At my last visit, his evil henchman, Tracy, attacked me with the saliva sucker and then, when Mr Poppa was scraping tartar off my teeth with a trowel he found down the Sunday Market, she sprayed my face with some sort of cleansing fluid (no doubt something they’d purchased at the pound shop) catching me in the eye and dislodging my contact lens. This hour of unrelenting violence came to £143.20. Needless to say, after my mouth had un-numbed itself, three days later, a piece of tooth fell out from I know not where. To be honest, if Tracy had the sucker on blow – easy done when you’ve got a brain the size of a pea –  it could have been someone else’s tooth. Oh God, please don’t make me go back. �