It took me 18 months to find a dentist based on the ground floor. It took me another 18 months of pandemic, plus a careless mouthful of peanuts, to realise that I had trouble looming, toothwise. Big trouble. Molars stirring and grumbling, knocking on the door, doing that “Hallooo… remember me? It’s been 15 years” routine.
My new dentist is a lovely man, but like all dentists has a very small surgery. (What is it with dentists? They seem to love being up two flights of stairs and working in tiny rooms, like gerbils.) The operation to get onto his chair from my wheelchair means leaving the door open and blocking the corridor.
Anyway, a check-up confirmed all I suspected: lots of work required, and