I know, I know. No-one really enjoys going to the dentist. But I think I was permanently scarred by childhood experiences. I had lots of fillings, but never an injection, and those horrible, sudden stabs of nerve pain, like electric shocks, tortured me during and haunted me between dentist appointments. On one occasion, I actually made myself ill, had a temperature, and missed the appointment altogether.
And then there's the personal space thing. No-one (apart from nearest and dearest) is allowed to invade personal space so thoroughly and for such long periods at a time as the dentist (at least with the advent of masks, I no longer have to look up his nose). I keep thinking "but I don't know you well enough for this!".
"I want to go home," I whimpered at one stage, from my vulnerable, near-horizontal position.
"Then you can go home," said the dentist reasonably, pointing out that he couldn't stop me.
But I stayed, like a brave soldier (not), and he did the filling. It took an hour. And afterwards, I tottered out, mumbling feeble apologies, vowing that I'd never go back.
But of course, I shall. I expect. One day. Just not yet.
