'Dentist.' I don't quite know how one word can simultaneously send 3 million shivers down my spine and get my palms to instantly switch to 'auto-sweat' mode.

The best thing about going to the dentists is undoubtedly the warm welcome I receive when I walk right into the office. A tray full of sharp, metal utensils just waiting to get to work on my teeth. There's always that one pointy one that looks strangely like barbed wire, and the big suction tube that makes life a living hell for people with sensitive teeth. But, if you're lucky and the dentist accidentally gets it stuck on your lip, then at least you can walk out with a Kylie Jenner lip job.

Once I've got my special dentist sunnies on and am lying down in the big chair that looks way more comfortable than it actually feels, the one hour of torture commences. But, the worst part is still to come. The dentist starts a kind of awkward conversation, asking me questions like 'how's school?' and 'did you go anywhere for the holidays?' which would actually be really sweet if they weren't in the middle of scraping the plaque off my left incisor and blurting out random numbers to the dental assistant. So there's just me, in an oversized chair, saying something that probably sounds a whole lot like 'kwoolsocaywoidinnit.'

And then there's the fact that after you turn 10, apparently you no longer have the right to a little tooth sticker or the generic little prizes that signal the end of the dentist session. Instead, you're left with a list of 'what not to eat' (which may or may not include chocolate), a hefty bill and an aching mouth that's calling out for a Panadol.