The tyranny of the tyrannical tyrants

A day of tyrants, in all shapes and forms.

First, I had a long-scheduled, long-put-off visit to the dentist. It had been around 18 months since I last darkened the doorsteps of the Ottawa West Butcher's Apprentice Shop Dental Practice, and having only just escaped with my life that time, I was naturally grateful for the respite afforded by the pandemic. My previous appointments - 12 months ago and 6 months ago - had both coincided with a surge in numbers and the closing of the Abattoir Dentists', so it was with a mixture of fear and terror that I turned up at the allotted time, bemasked, to be greeted by what I immediately took to be a gun-wielding technician at the door. Clearly, no second thoughts allowed here.

It turned out the "gun" was in fact a temperature reader, so I could have made a break for it. And, as it turned out, I should have. I was poked and prodded, stabbed and slashed, x-rayed and forced to wear the most ridiculous pair of darkened eye wear I have ever seen. They were the shape and size Elton John used to wear on stage in his earlier, more interesting incarnations, before he became your grandmother. 

The worst part of this was yet to come. The cleaning. The giantess in the white gown had her elbow on my throat to prevent movement as she seemingly sharpened my molars to a spike, ripped out my gums to find the smallest speck of tartar or plaque, slapped me repeatedly around the face if I dared make the slightest noise, forced the tube into my maw to tear the sublingual life-blood out of my mouth, laughed manically as my x-rays refused to show on the screen... 

And then it finished. In through the plastic sheeted doors strode the dentist, carrying her ubiquitous hacksaw and chisel. The tones she used, as she looked at my x-rays and examined the charts, can only be termed as sneering. 

"Really, Mr. Ottawacker, this was just a cleaning. There is no need for tears. We are not monsters you know. Besides, everything looks fine. We'll just get you a tissue and you can go."

With a scheduled appointment for six months hence, they took an amount equivalent to the GDP of Bhutan out of my account and marched me to the doors, and freedom. I fell to the ground and kissed the freshly fallen snow, and drove home to the warmth of my family.

I was greeted by the door by my son, holding a cup of coffee for me. "Mum said you'd been to the dentist, dad - do you need a lie down." I took the coffee and made my way to the bedroom without a backward glance.

It was against this backdrop that the second act of tyranny took place. Having received Ottawacker Jr.'s report card, which revealed he is already better at Maths than I am and used words (such as 'enthusiastic' and 'hardworking' and 'talented') that I had never seen written on a report card before, the decision was taken to celebrate with a pizza and the third Harry Potter movie.

But before the pizza, must come the salade verte. 

"But I don't want salad."
"Nobody wants salad."
"So why are you making me have it?"
"I went to the dentist today."
"What has that to do with the price of chips?"
"I went to the dentist today. Do you really want to argue with me?"
"No."
"Eat your salad."

So he ate his salad. And liked it, because Mrs. Ottawacker had made her special dressing. And then we decamped to the TV room and watched the movie. Or at least two of us did. I might have dozed fitfully again, seeing Voldemort in my dreams, dressed in a white coat, a mask and wielding a chisel and hacksaw.