STRAY LEAVES

Southland Times, Issue 19900, 19 June 1926, Page 13 (Supplement)

STRAY LEAVES

DENTAL LAPSES

(By

“Simkins.”)

I “Simkins.” I- was dimly conscious, as I worked, that someone was speaking to me, calling me by name, but so engrossed was I in my i writing that even as the thought came to j me it w’as gone and I wrote on diligently. “Simkins!” I This time I was more certain of someone i near me; more conscious of something I breaking in on my thoughts. Still I might I have been mistaken, I probably was. | I was engaged in writing an article on ! golf entitled "Hints to. young players.” I have always held the opinion that golfers • have paid too much in the past for advice | from such fellows as Vardon, Ray etc.--advice that has not been fully understood, because it was too involved, too over-rid-den with that jargon which makes golf such a difficult game. Now what is wanted is something clear, concise, some juvenile to tell the beginner exactly what to do in terms that the beginner can understand. “Now,” I had written, “take your stance on the tee and grip the brassie firmly. Take the club back slowly until it wedges into the back of your boot. Should you be smitten with the desire to scratch your nose at this juncture, for the love of Mike scratch! Many a good drive has been shortened from 200 to 180 yards by players leaving the scratching process until the club is right on the ball. Here it is necessary to wiggle the big toe and the one next to it together briskly. This will cause a grating sound which will in all probability unnerve your opponent but it will give you that sense of rhythm so necessary to the perfect swing. Any tendency towards moving the scalp backwards or forwards should be discouraged, as causes spofs to appear on the ball. A good golfer should see only one spot—at least until after the match. A slight shimmying effect may here be introduced; emulate a staid blanc mange proceeding down the North Road. Above all concentrate —that’s the word—concentrate—beef extract in fact! Now .... “Simkin’s d-e-a-r.” Eighteen month of matrimonial bliss had made me realise that when Angeline used the “dear” in that drawling manner it was time to stand not on the order of my going—in fact to stand not at all—but to move. Instantly I was all attention. “Did’st I hear your sweet voice, my love?” I said eyeing my article regretfully. “I’m glad to see you have come to” she said coldly, “And now I want to know if you have made an appointment with your dentist.” “Er-er-no,” I replied, trying to look very conscience-stricken. » “Well, go and ring up and make an appointment for to-morrow.” “But look here, Angeline, I’m sure Mr Tweezers will not be able to take me tomorrow. Its a half holiday you know. We must see he has a rest sometimes. I will ring up on Monday, what?” “No; now,” she said with a firmness that domestic science has told me not to dispute. So off I went on leaden feet to the telephone. “Hello; is that exchange?” I said. “I want twenty-two, double two, with a couple thrown in for luck.” “Are you there?” came a melancholy voice. “No; I’m out in the back-yard playing Snakes and Ladders with the family cat” I replied, but allowing time for the chuckles to subside, I continued: “Er—could you fit me in sometime to-morrow ?” All the time trying to appear as if I was keen on it. “What time will you die?” came the melancholy voice. “What!” I yelled, breaking into a perspiration. “Do you wish to be removed here” he went on in cold, unsympathetic tones. My flesh began creeping until I was sure I was accordeon pleated and then found myself the victim of a sudden attack of St. Vitus’s dance, with all the latest steps including that famous hesitation on the crest of the beat known only to the experts. “Is that Mr Tweezers’ parlour?” I said through the four-crotchet clatter of the ivories. “No this is the morgue. Shall we send round for you or would you prefer to walk? It’s half-a-crown extra for the van.” “Ring off,” I grasped, swooning to the floor—the man’s voice was positively hob low'—as hollow as I felt. “Hello! Is that Mr Tweezers? Oh, Mr Simkins here. I know there is no chance of an appointment to-morrow but perhaps ‘. . ?” ] “Yes to-morrow at ten; thank you.” These confounded dentists are far to efficient. I was still cold and unhappy when I sought the face of Angeline but she was not sympathetic and told me to go on writing. Heartless wretch! But I did not want to write. Who can discourse on the legato movements of golf with knocking knees and crepitating teeth? I can’t, and so decided to go to bed, there to regain control. I must have slept, although I was sure it was only for ten minutes, but the next I knew it was broad daylight. I groaned and, having bathed and dressed, shaved myself dangerously, ate dog biscuits instead of Cream Crackers and presently found myself strolling down the street. A beautiful day, and how nice to stroll, on a beautiful day listening to the birdies and basking in the sun. So different from King Charles's walk from Whitehall to the block in heavy snow. Really I could scarcely walk slowly enough. Dear little birdies! I swung the glass door back and immediately detected the denticulated odour. I lifted my leaden feet slowly up the stairs and gazed with unglazed eyes at a bell marked “Please ring.” I had not thought of knocking. It was such a shame to disturb them. They must need a rest. I decided to go downstairs. Out popped a vestal. I surveyed her drearily. “Come in please, Mr Simkins, we won’t keep you long,” she said too brightly. “Oh, please don’t hurry on my account; there is plenty of time really.” I wandered from one chair to another, never getting comfortable. How I envied the people passing along the street down below! I tried to read a two-year-old magazine, but the stupid thing was printed upside down. Suddenly I froze in my chair and I felt my hair rising. From the room next door there came an awful groan. I felt myself growing dizzy and I wanted me mither. Fly before it was too late! Too late—the nurse stood in the doorway. “Mr Tweezers will take you now sir” she said with a smile. How I hated that smile! “Well, Simkins, old man, how are you?” said Mr Tweezers, oheeriN shaking my hand. I returned the shake with about as much enthusiasm as a lobster would show on being introduced to the mayonnaise sauce. I clambered into the chair and Tweezers began loading my mouth up with instruments. Having tucked away three rolls of wadding some odds and ends in metal, two mirrows and put a suction pump under my tongue he manoeuvred round with a stabbing spear—and began a brisk conversation. “I have heard that Nerve will be likely to come out in the Grand National this year” he said impressing his views upon a very tender part. “Ah-sh-ah!” I replied.

“Yes; they say he should have a special preparation before being taken out, but I think it could be managed without.” “Oh—oh—ph! !” by way of variation. “Talking of Nerve, Simkins I think we should take this one out I think it’s dead. I won’t keep you after that.” No, you certainly will not, I thought and gripped my ehair. “Here she comes” he said wiggling a long piece of wire down to my toes. “By Jove, I don’t think it’s dead (I knew it wasn’t). We’d better take it out. Steady—what do you say ?”

“Ah—-ee ■■■er—-oh- -ell!” “Quite so . . quite so . . that's done with.” Later I was told that my reply to thia assurance from my torturer was: “Keep your eye-ball on the nerve centre,” but when the dentist and the nurse had brought their Crazy Cottage evolutions to an end I was conscious only that I wanted to be comforted. Out of the misty redness of my semi-swoon with nerves ajingle came a cahn voice, plainer now: "Mr Simkin, Mrs Simkins wants you to come straight home and don’t forget to bring home a lemon!” Ouch!