OK, so you move to a foreign country in the hope of a better life/pay cheque/school/society whatever. Then something happens that makes you wish you were back home – even if only temporarily. Yes, I’ve chipped a back molar. I was eating lovely sugar roasted almonds (Spanish speciality) and a bit of my tooth fell off. Thankfully it’s a small piece so I am not in pain but my imagination has gone into overdrive. Visiting the dentist is awful in the best case scenario (familiar dentist, speaking English, comfy chair!) and now, horror of horrors, I have to go to a new, unfamiliar dentist who may not have a comfy chair. Oh No! The temptation of course is to put the dentist appointment off as long as possible, but that’s not good. I just have to grit my teeth and find a dentist, preferably an English speaking one (although does it really matter when you’re in the chair unable to speak for the sound of the scary drill grinding away at the bones in your mouth?)
I’m not happy...
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