I'm in the dentist, this morning. Did I mention that I'm irrationally frightened of the dentist? It took me ages to find my special touchy-feely yoga-enabled Lavender oil sharing set-up, and I love them. But I'm still scared. Not least since the previous dentist disappeared in a puff of alleged malpractice litigation, which did not make me feel great. The new dentist looks like one of the male models in the picture stories in Jackie magazine in like 1983. He's cute, perfectly formed, but you only see him sitting down. He's nice though.
So I'm pacing the reception, awash with nervous energy, making everyone else feel like they'd like some drugs and why don't I just siddown, when the five waiting dentees start a conversation with the receptionist (they all bizarrely seem to be in the same social circle, or are rather un-London and talk to each other) about how her sister has lost ten stone. Ten stone. Ten stone. Hear the sound of that, folks.
We talk variously about how (diet and exercise - how retro), why (like, you need to ask), and is she different (her own mother walked past her in the street). I shared that I had lost some (significant amount of) weight. They all congratulated me. Another woman said she found dieting hard, and we concurred that it's about changing your eating patterns rather than being on-a-diet or off-a-diet.
It was like a twelve step programme, only with dental treatment.
That is all.
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