Dentist

Yesterday I went to the dentist.

My official position on this is that 'I hate the dentist'.  I am not alone in thinking that of course.

This is wrong in a number of ways. 

For a start, my dentist is very nice.  She's funny and, as far as I can tell, she's good at her job.  So I don't hate my dentist at all.  Perhaps, instead, I hate going to my dentist.

But that is wrong-headed too.  I'm afraid my teeth are not in the condition of the ones in the mirror above but at least this time there was no work to be done.  To find that out, and have them cleaned, and come away with change from a £20.00 note - it's hardly the worst thing in my week.  Perhaps I hate being treated by my dentist.

This too is crazily wrong.  Frankly, I have had most of my dental treatment at short notice when I have been desperate to be treated by my dentist.  It is closer to the truth to say I hate not being treated by my dentist - the kind of dread that comes with a worrying crunch on something hard when away on holiday.  Perhaps it's just the thought - I hate the thought of being treated by my dentist.

But no.  That thought is a great privilege as I walk past my dentist's surgery as I often do.  Along the road from her is my doctor's surgery, down from there the hospital (just past the pharmacies).  To walk to all four and home again would be about two miles.  How many places in the world is that possible?

I don't hate my dentist at all.  I hate having bad teeth sometimes.

And when somebody says the hate God or Jesus (or probably even the Church) they probably mean they hate not being righteous - only they never think about it long enough to work it through.