In a Pickle

The dementing whine of the drill fades away, and the room quietens. In the corner, Steve Wright grossly flatters a C-list actor on the radio. I admire my handiwork, and check its colour and dimensions. I gently drop the mirror on to the side table and tap the chair return button. Steve laughs at his own voice. I wince. He's been laughing at himself everyday during my working afternoon for years; his format is dated and uncomfortable, like the sofa at your grandmother's.

The young lady grins with difficulty, as her face is partially frozen. Eventually she retracts her upper lip with a finger to expose her teeth. She peers quizzically into a mirror for a few seconds.

"Wow, you can't even see it," she says.

I give her a cheery smile and waffle on about numbness, sensitivity and initial care. I'm on autopilot, it's a practised speech I make hourly and probably mumble in my sleep. My nurse Debbie is mouthing my words in mimed mockery; she's out of the patient's eyesight and standing near the door. I shoot her a momentary sideways warning, but there's no malice in my look. In reality I'm simply trying not to crack my professional veneer.

The patient thanks me warmly, receives a card from Debbie and troops out the door. I deglove, wash hands, and write up the clinical notes. Sally, the receptionist, bursts in to the room like a squad of policemen.

"You have to see this patient now," she says, waving a record card in front of my face. She's proffering the document as if it's an edict signed from the Lord High Pooh-Bah. It isn't. The patient's name comes in to view on the card, and it's not one I recognise.

"Not one of mine," I say. Sally's isn't swayed by my casual rebuttal.

"You have to see him now." Her voice is unwavering and slightly louder.

"But I have the Jones family to see now, can't someone else see him?" My voice is losing strength and purpose. I know I'm whining and on the losing side.

"You've got a couple of minutes, everyone else is running late." She looks me firmly in the eye; there is something else there in her stare, a raised hint of desperation.

I wearily capitulate and accept the record card. Richard Darling. Nope, there's nothing for me there in that name. I walk to the waiting room. Inside there is the usual scrum of humanity. A grandmother in a bobble hat thumbs vehemently through a many months' old copy of Heat. Is her obvious distaste the magazine's content or her enforced wait? Her face twists bitterly. Maddy Jones, single mother of umpteen, rises as she spots me in the door frame.

"I'm sorry Ms Jones," I say, "We're not quite ready for you yet." She flumps back in to the chair, puffing air out of her cheeks. Peter, her son, thumps his brother David. David leans over and yanks sister Lizzie's hair. Lizzie yells. Grandmother Bobble-Hat tuts. It is now that I notice something in the air. I've smelt it all in waiting rooms before: it's normally the simple scent of fear. That's commonly partnered with the smells of farmyards, fish, stale cigarettes, the unwashed, the undeodorised; my nose has been assaulted on many occasions. But there's a new smell today, and it's in the far corner.

"Richard Darling?" I call. A shape materialises opposite me, rises and shuffles awkwardly across the room. The children stop fighting as he passes, Bobble Hat scowls and holds a hankie to her face.

"This way please," I say as Mr Darling nears me. He looks normal enough, slightly dishevelled, chef whites, chequered trousers. There's an unshaven raffishness about him that some would find endearing. I don't. Out of the corner of my eye, Sally is winking in triumph. Richard Darling has an all pervading aura, and it hits me with tsunami force.

I cough and splutter as I walk down the corridor, and we enter the surgery. I motion Richard into the dental chair, and take a seat on my stool.

"Well, what seems to be the problem?" I ask. I'm wary and guarded, this man has come equipped with powerful toxins. My nose starts twitching like Jilly Goolden over a New World Chardonnay. I'm getting hints of fear, undoubtedly; married with stale sweat, and a sledgehammer of onions.

"Umm, well, my teeth have been fine for years, I haven't needed to see a dentist since the eighties. Just last month a bit broke off, and I've been in agony for days."

Inwardly I groan. I'm staring at a standard issue dentist-avoiding British-bloke Mark I. Normally aged eighteen to forty five, completely terrified and barges in on otherwise meticulously regimented afternoons. Often sighted in a sweaty and emotionally raw state, prone to sobbing and protracted pleading. This one, had something extra, he came with a crate load of onions on top.

Steve Wright cuts in from the corner. "And a recent survey has revealed that Britain's favourite dish is Chicken Tikka Masala, knocking fish 'n' chips from the top spot."

The penny dropped. Vinegar. Not just a cheeky splash, but gallons of it.

"I'm really sorry," says Richard, "I have been helping a restaurant mate, I've been locked in the kitchen making onion chutney for the past three days. I hope it's not a problem."

I'm close to him now, and there is no escape. His stench punches up my nose, and I begin to taste him in the back of my mouth.

I deck out in the usual kit and tie the mask firmly across my face. As protection from his assaulting odour, it's as effective as wearing a bikini in a jousting contest. I arm myself with mirror and probe and approach Richard. He titters, he quivers and my vision goes wavy. I stop, and realise that my eyes are streaming. I blink my eyes clear and prepare for another pass. I can make it to about two feet from Richard's head before my eyes flood again. This man is repelling me with force. I cannot make headway. Closing my eyes, I feel under his jaw.

"Hmmm, that's quite a swelling you've got there," I say in my best doctor voice. I spin away, skittering across the floor on the stool. I throw the gloves, and reach for pad and pen.

"We'll need to get that infection down first," I say, "Take these antibiotics and pop back in three days."

Richard leaps off the chair in relief, grabs the prescription and runs. Debbie throws open every window and fans her face. Sally marches in with an I-told-you-so smirk.

"What kept you?" she asks.

"I'm never eating a pickled onion again," I say.

"Sweet dreams are made of this," intones Annie Lennox from the radio. Lizzie Jones yells from the waiting room.