Some jobs should not be owned up to.
No, I am not talking about shit-shoveller or rent-boy.
Ever been to a party and met a traffic policeman?.
Did you speak to him about rock music or your latest speeding ticket?
Ever met a lawyer at the same kind of party?
Did you ask for advice about the last time you were wrongfully arrested?
Ever met a doctor and spewed forth the intimate details of your bodily functions?
Well, I haven't - but many people have.
My sister, a doctor, told me a story about the perils of medical life.
'Once struck up a conversation with a gentleman at a church function. He proceeded to tell me all about his rectal bleeding and discharge! It didn't bother me but it sure upset the other people I was talking to when he arrived!'
No problem for her, though, (she is a Terry Wogan fan).
Some occupations attract it (you know who you are).
Nowadays, I suppose you don't want to say you are a dentist - everyone will have a horror story about someone who has had to travel 3 zillion miles to find one taking on new patients.
Still, one of the good things about the influx of Polish dentists has been the language barrier which will save you from an ordeal in the chair.
The ordeal, that is, of having to listen without the luxury of reply.
Award winning songwriter, Ian Davison, has put it better than I could ever do in his song 'Talking Dentist Blues'
Does nobody love a dentist? Do their sweethearts just pretend? Does everybody give them a miss, even their family and their friends? `Cause when they get you there, gagged and helpless in the chair, They rabbit and they drivel till it nearly drives you spare.
“So I’m going to pop these tiny wads of cotton-wool right in, And hang this suction hose here on your tongue and teeth and chin. And can you open up a little bit more there? Nice and wide.” Until the drill and the fist and the wrist are all crammed right inside.
Three wonderful verses to follow. . . . . .
The full text can be found here and as a special treat you can even download the song.