I am 1.8 metres tall in my socks and therefore not small in stature. However, the mention of two words can reduce me to a babbling, terrified five-year-old boy. That age reference has much meaning to this column as you will painfully discover.

Let me put you out of my misery and reveal that the two words are “hospital” and “dentist”.

I write this piece knowing that I am not the only one who feels this way, or perhaps I am hoping to prove that I am not the only coward that cowers away from the two “nasties” okay.

Let me eliminate the dentists first (a comforting thought - akin to having permanent novacaine).

If you think I am exaggerating, watch the film Marathon Man with Dustin Hoffman and Sir Laurence Olivier. To me, lying back helpless in an imposing dental chair with your mouth agape, looking maniacal, with a strange man looming over you with a menacing looking tool, is akin to the common description of being in the proverbial “hell”.

However, before I am pursued by a dozen tooth doctors chasing me and brandishing their deadly tools, let me clear the air. When I was a child, I had no control over which dental surgeon to go to and I tell you that I saw some medieval practitioners who would not have been out of place in the Spanish Inquisition.

One in particular, I recall clearly, a big scary looking man, seemed to enjoy intimidating children and made the visit an extremely unpleasant and painful experience. In extracting teeth, he endeavoured to extract as much pain as he could from us, I often think, now that I am an adult, I would love to pay him a visit.

I would strap him to his chair and use the drill liberally on him. The difference being that I would strap him upside down. However, I think that by now, all these years later, he would be languishing in the great tooth cemetery in the sky. If, on the other hand, I happen to see him in a shopping mall or elsewhere one day, I would casually tell him to “floss off”.

In my adult life, fortunately, I have had the opposite experience with dental surgeons. I have had the pleasure of being treated a few times by Dr Mahendra Singh in Malvern. He is a real gentleman with a placid and warm nature that calms you instantly. And that is not just for show to placate you. Also, his bills don’t hurt you either.

Two weeks ago, I was in agony with an infected tooth and I could not go all the way to Malvern for treatment. I looked for an alternative dental surgeon nearer me and found Dr Eubulus Timothy in Musgrave. I knew of him as he is a seasoned film director and so I was keen to meet him. I left his rooms suitably impressed.

Highly professional and experienced, I literally suffered no pain and suffering, neither did my wallet.

Doctors Singh and Timothy restored my faith in dental visits.

But back to horror stories and literally so. The subject of hospitals. For all of my adult life I am terrified to enter a hospital. I cannot even visit patients in hospitals, no matter how near and dear they are to me. I guess I have a hospital phobia and I have good reason to.

Rewind to when I was merely five years old. My parents took me to McCord Hospital in Overport. I was there to have Mr Tonsil and Mr Adenoid removed. I did not know who these two chaps were, but if I knew what an experience it would be to have them extricated, I would have had left intact.

Alas, at the time I did not “nose” the effect it would have on my entire adult life. You see it was not a one-day procedure as I had to stay overnight for observation. No one had prepared me for that torture. I could not believe that my dear, beloved parents would abandon me overnight in that cold, antiseptic atmosphere. I remember the door to the ward closing and the departing figure of my mother.

The next moment all proverbial hell broke loose.

I screamed like a deranged lunatic in full throe. No amount of my favourite ice cream and fruit juice could placate me the next day when my parents arrived to fetch me. What had happened? You seethe previous night, when I was all cried out, the mischief and curiosity in me emerged. I got out of prison, meaning the hospital bed, and wandered around the hospital as I was equal parts terrified and bored out of my skull.

I came across a closed door that obviously needed looking into and so I duly opened it and entered. Never in the history of mankind had an exit been so rapid. Roger Bannister’s record breaking four-minute mile was in serious contention as I turned and fled the hospital mortuary. When I had opened the door, dozens of corpses under sheets were my welcoming party. No way

was I going to allow the dear and recently departed claim me. Do you blame me for my still existent hospital phobia?

fear

My no-go zones