Low Life | 31 January 2009

Three years ago, when I couldn’t put off going to a dentist any longer, and had to make an urgent appointment, I discovered that the closest NHS dentist was in north Devon. I live in south Devon. Devon is a big county. It has more miles of road surface than Belgium. So I was forced to enrol for a course of treatment with a private dentist in the nearest town.

Every time I visit this private dentist’s surgery I am reminded of the old saying that only the rich know the difference between being rich and being poor. In the waiting room, soothing, digitally recorded Mozart wafts you into a deep leather sofa. There is a choice of daily newspapers and up-market magazines, including The Spectator, and free tea and coffee from the machine. And there is only ever one other person waiting, at most. Assuming you to be comfortably wealthy also, this expensively dressed person invariably looks up from their BlackBerry or Condé Nast Traveller and welcomes you cordially and conspiratorially to the world of private health care.