Dental nurse’s clinic drill
My day had been going relatively smoothly. No ruffles (apart from those upon my shirt) but no real concerns. For a 9-year-old (yes, this was back in the days when everything seemed to be black and white) it was just another day at school.
Until, while I had my head down during a “write a story” lesson and scribbling together a load of bollocks about waving to train drivers or whatever, there was a slightly muted knock at the classroom door.
The teacher (having been woken by this I daresay) stepped across the room and opened it — to a little chap who was a year ahead of us and who looked slightly concussed, and who was clutching a piece of paper.
The teacher took it from him and sent him cheerfully on his way, and read the message he bore aloud.
“Roger Moroney is wanted at the dental clinic.”
All the foul wee beasts (my classmates) around me all gave out groans of “oooh” and “you’ll get the drill”.
The teacher, pointing her finger toward to door, said “off you go then”.
“Yes miss,” I replied, as one of the beasts at the back of the room where the troublesome kids were sent (he’s probably a member of Parliament now) sneered “you’re going to the murder house”. Indeed I was. For in those early years most schools had their own little dental clinics, which were labelled as “the murder house”.
So away I sauntered, rubbing my forefinger across the top row of my teeth to get the Vegemite from lunch off, and delivered myself into the clutches of the dental nurse who, I have to say, was a very friendly and nice lady.
She had the skills and patience, but was using equipment I suspect was a cheap buy after the Boer War medical services were stood down.
But, in her role as the host of the murder house, we all just figured she was simply a charming murderess whose use of a grinding drill and sharp instruments helped her sleep at night.
It was always scary going to the murder house but one thing kept my spirits alive and buoyant.
For I knew that when my date with the lovely lady in white concluded I would be sent off, with a note in my still trembling hand, to summon the next victim, I mean patient, to her chair.
I vaguely remember one time when I was handed the “you’re next for the chair . . . any last words?” note and saw it was for one of my classmates. A snotty, bullish, troublesome, badly dressed heap of humanity who would have been the first to lead the “you’re for it now!” chorus when I got the call up.
So I grinned as I knocked at the door, and the teacher welcomed me back in and took the note from my hand.
She declared that (name deleted as I’ve forgotten it anyway) “is wanted at the dental clinic”.
He froze in terror as all eyes centred upon him, and I recall rubbing my forefinger across the top row of my teeth again.
But this time as a signal that “now you’re for it ya dork”.
All these meandering dental memories came about in the wake of recently overhearing someone say “oh you know the drill” . . . to which the recipient replied “the dentist’s drill?”
And they laughed . . . and all I could think of was a piece of paper, more than half a century ago, with my name on it and an appointment with Jill the drill . . . the dental nurse.
It was kind of scary but those wonderful women did a wonderful job and occasionally gave little gifts at the end of their role in “filling” in your day.
I once got a tiny glass vial of mercury.
Wouldn’t happen today of course, but in those days, hey, we all knew the drill.