I can taste the dentist’s latex gloves in the back of my throat and I wish I’d stuck around to rinse and spit, or at least spit. I wonder what would happen if I did it right here, right now, which would usually make me want to laugh, but not today.

I close my eyes and lean back, trying to regulate my ragged breath. I feel a lump behind me and pull out a creased newspaper folded back to a photo of a middle-aged hippie in the back of a cop car sticking his two fingers up.

Someone’s drawn on the photo with purple felt tip and given the guy a twirly moustache, a scar across his cheek and a couple of blacked-out teeth. The crazy sticking-up hair is all his own, so I only award five out of ten to the artist. On second thoughts it feels a bit mean, so I take it up to a six for creative use of purple.

The receptionist is looking over at me suspiciously, so I wave the paper and give her a fake smile. She quickly ducks her head. Maybe she’s worried I’m planning to sit here until my next appointment, which doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I reckon I could do six months hands down.

A little kid with a half-eaten chocolate bar in her hand wanders over and stands right in front of me, and stares without blinking. It’s on.

Our eyes dry out. She’s good, but I’m better.

‘What?’ My voice isn’t as sharp as I wanted and it comes out like the back end of an echo instead of mildly threatening, like I’d meant it to sound. The kid isn’t impressed either way, and I watch a giant blob of spit and chocolate take a month to slide down her chin. Who the hell gives their kid a Twix in a dentist’s surgery?

‘That chair’s for little kids. You’re too big.’ Fair call. Although, rude.

‘Buzz off, you.’ She looks like I’ve slapped her, but I said what I said. I lean forward slightly to go in for the kill. ‘That chocolate’s going to rot your teeth and then the dentist’s going to rip out the stumps and give you falsies.’

Straight away the kid wells up and I feel bad because I’ve misjudged her. I thought she could take the banter. Suddenly, sitting in a miniature chair bullying a four-year-old feels like the dumbest thing I’ve ever done and I think about my mother, waiting at home to ask me how I got on at the dentist’s, and how I love her for that and a million other things. Maybe a million and a half.

I’m tempted to snatch the random numbers still fizzing in my head – eleven, twenty-two, fourteen – but my feet push me up. My bum stays wedged, though, and the chair comes with me. Another time I might have had a laugh at it, and even got the kid in on the joke to make up for being a cow to her, but right now it feels like that chair could be the only thing that’s keeping me together. It doesn’t even slow me down.