GRISELDA AND THE DENTIST

Sometimes it seems that a disproportionate amount of time is dedicated to the rich and not-so-famous

“I've got feckin' toothache!” groaned Henrietta Blackboil to Griselda Entwhistle. The miserable and barely sober old woman was visiting Griselda (as was her wont when she needed something), and a bout of pain from an infected tooth was surging through her head and making the pupils of her eyes spin.

“You should clean them, then,” grinned Griselda. “You should get a twig from the barley field and scrub your gnashers with it! That way they'll stay nice and clean and never get bad!”

“I don't see you doin' it, you feckin' witch!” snarled Henrietta, in too much pain to even border on being polite.

“I use magic,” smirked Griselda. “I just cast the right spell and my teeth become pristine! I can use magic on you if you want. I can put a few slugs and snails into a jar and mash 'em up and say the right words, and your teeth will be good as new.”

“Yuk!” snarled Henrietta, “you can keep your squishy nasties! I'll put up with the pain and numb it with a pint of Thomas's best vodka! That's the medicine for me!”

“And when you come round from your stupor, the pain'll be there again,” mused Griselda. “Use rot-gut as a medicine and you'll end up an alcoholic!”

“End up an alcoholic? What do you think I am already, witch!” sneered Henrietta.

“Rotten through and through,” muttered Griselda. “No liver left, I shouldn't wonder, just a body filled with mush that's barely functioning. If you won't have my magic then I'll take you to the dentist myself and let him poke around in your rotten mouth. Hear that, hag? The dentist!”

“No you feckin' won't!” howled Henrietta, but it was no good. Griselda was determined, and a determined Griselda is something nobody could countermand. She grizzled a few unimaginably powerful words under her breath, mentioning the devil amongst other things, and within a few moments she and Henrietta were astride her second-best broomstick and she was gently caressing its knobbly shaft with cheeks that had never properly adjusted to the task.

She winced, and sighed because her rear end suffered a certain amount of grief from the knobbly broomstick, especially when her voluminous bloomers were forced too far into realms best left unmentioned. What she did for her friends! What discomfort she put her own body through. She clenched her buttocks, winced again, and the broomstick shot off.

Michel Von Molar was a highly skilled dentist and he had a practice not far from the oak tree that had marked the centre of Swanspottle since time immemorial. It more than shocked his nubile receptionist when two old women zoomed through the door, one in obvious control of a broomstick, of all things, and the other holding her face and howling like a demented banshee.

That receptionist, as are many in that field of work, was an attractive young wench with eyelashes that were never quite still and an endearing pout, and her name was an inappropriate Faith Virgo. She also favoured the principle, when she dressed in the mornings, that less is more, so she invariably went about verging on the naked and yet never wondered why the window cleaner called so early, and just about every day at that.

She took one look at the double apparition and their chosen means of transport, shrieked loud and long, and raced out into the street calling “murder” and “witches” at the top of her voice.

The white-coated Michel Von Molar poked his nose out of what he fancifully called Surgery Number Three (though where numbers one or two were nobody ever knew) and demanded to know what was going on.

“We have come to be relieved of our pain,” cackled Griselda, spying the familiar corporate body of the local Member of Parliament in the dentist's chair behind the dentist in the Surgery Number Three, “or at least this despicable old hag has. There's something awry in her gob, and we've brought it for you to look at.”

“Where's Miss Virgo?” Von Molar barked.

“Oh �" you mean the creature straight from a frustrated man's most erotic fantasies who just raced out, screaming?” asked Griselda sweetly. “She … er, she ran out screaming.”

“Well then, what can I do for you?” demanded the dentist, showing premature signs of high blood pressure and embryonic heart problems as indicated by a throbbing vein in his temple and spittle in his words.

“Miss Blackboil here is at death's door,” began Griselda. “She has a bad tooth...”

“Then she must make an appointment!” barked Michel Von Molar. “It's what I expect my patients to do … make an appointment and I must warn you, I have a long list of patients waiting for urgent treatment!”

“You mean … she must suffer in vodka while you poke around in useless politicians?” spluttered Griselda.

“It's what folks do,” grinned the dentist, feeling that he might be getting the upper hand over two feisty and unpleasant old women.

“And you don't mind?” asked Griselda, “you think it appropriate that my wretched and unpleasantly fragrant old friend here should suffer unbelievable agonies while you spend your time polishing the teeth of the rich and famous politicians until they're so white they look ridiculous?”

“It's down to money...” began Von Molar. “There are costs...”

“By the devil, transfer Blackboil's bad tooth to the member of parliament in that room and give me some peace!” muttered Griselda.

We all know that it happened, don't we?

There was an outraged howl from Surgery Number Three and the Member of Parliament came racing out, foul yellow matter spurting from his mouth and an agonised look on his bloated face.

“That's it!” he roared, “The pain, the pain...” And he ran off as if pursued by all the hounds of a very dark place.

And as he was never seen again we must assume that he is still running. Anyway, there was to be a by-election in his constituency very, very soon, and I believe a certain nubile young receptionist may well be one of the candidates, standing on the proposal that all broomsticks be banished from Swanspottle - on pain of death.