Memory Lane
After qualifying in dentistry in 1967, I worked in a practice in Earl’s Court, London. One day, a new patient was ushered into my surgery. I asked him to take a seat.
‘No, it’s not for me. I just want to talk.’
‘Well, OK,’ I said. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘I just want to know whether you would attend to my master.’
‘Just make an appointment with the receptionist.’
He thanked me, bowed and retreated backwards through the door. I stood there thinking he might be a nutcase, but then forgot all about it.
The patient came in ten days later. I should have seen the name ‘Reza Pahlavi’ on my list. But there was such a cosmopolitan collection of people in Earl’s Court then that his was just one of a number of exotic names.
A few days later, my boss asked me if I had attended to someone called Reza Pahlavi. I had no recollection of this – so we checked my daily record. There it was – proof positive.
‘So you treated him on the National Health scheme,’ my boss said. ‘Do you not know who he is?’
‘Never heard of him,’ I said.
I was amazed to hear that he was the Shah of Iran.
‘You should have charged him private fees. He’s one of the richest men around,’ my boss said. To this day, I have no idea what the Shah of Persia looked like – but I would readily recognise my fillings if I saw them.
By Gerald Mccay, who receives £50. Readers are invited to send in their own 400-word submissions about the past