On my left sits a white haired businessman. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit and he's flicking through The Metro, picking his nose quite nonchalantly as he reads. On my right sits a Chinese girl. She’s cleaning her glasses with the sleeve of her shirt while chatting on her 'hands free' mobile. Next to her sits a Spanish boy, chatting on his mobile. And next to him a skinhead queen is doing the same. Two benches along, a man with two backpacks by his side is twitching in his seat, muttering obscenities, miming a masturbatory hand gesture. And just by the gates, two policemen have a shirtless boy pinned to the ground while they radio for reinforcements. I’m in the cultural melting pot that is Soho Square, the sun is filtering through the trees, drunken bodies are sprawled across the grass and it’s a beautiful September afternoon.

I like Soho Square. Despite the fact that today it’s at its busiest, I feel relaxed here. It’s been a tough few months, but sitting here, in the shade, doodling in my little black notebook, letting my mind wander, the day-to-day anxieties that can swamp you are put into perspective. Plus, I feel more creative here. And any little niggles I have about not writing, or not knowing what to write, gradually disappear. 

I scan my surroundings. A white terrier rummages in the bushes in front of me. He cocks his leg up and pisses against a tree, then trots out, chasing a pigeon, causing a flock of them to take flight. There’s a splatter of shit around my feet as they swoop above my head. A fleck hits my shoe. Is this good luck? Who was it who told me that? Oh yes. I brush the memory aside and reach down, cleaning my shoe with a tissue. A feather floats down in front of my face and a black girl struts by. She’s got a cigarette in one hand and a Café Nero cup in the other. Her hair’s pulled back severely and she’s scowling as she looks for a seat, a glimpse of zebra-print tights as she leaves.

My shoe clean, I sit up, cross my legs and start to pepper the page of my notebook with nonsensical detail on what people are wearing and saying.

The skinhead queen (chinos and a ‘business casual’ shirt): “I’m willing to pay £1500.”

The ‘masturbating man’ (red football shirt): “Fuck you. You fucking cunts.”

The police: “Where is it? What did you do with it?”

My mobile rings. A friend's name flashes up and I have a flash of annoyance because my ‘me’ time has been invaded. I switch my mobile to ‘silent.’ Then a wave of guilt. We haven’t seen each other for so long. She’s been through so much. I wasn’t there. All these thoughts. While I try to reconcile them my mobile vibrates. It’s the ansaphone. I listen to the message. She’s coming into Soho. Where am I? Do I want to meet? I debate again. I only have 45 minutes. But the fact that she’s so close is the deciding factor. I call her back and I direct her from Carnaby Street, to Broadwick Street, making my way out of the Square, past the ‘masturbating man,’ the topless boy (one side of his face flat against the tarmac, the police, like proud hunters astride a felled beast), connecting with her on Wardour Street, where we hug, make small talk, finding ourselves minutes later on Old Compton Street, where we take seats outside Boulevard, ordering a glass of wine and a cappuccino. And the time apart, departs.

30 minutes later we’re saying our goodbyes. I walk back through Soho Square, around the 'Tudor style' gardener’s hut, the Charles II statue, mingling through the bustling crowds of Oxford Street, turning into Cavendish Square, heading down Harley Street. I have a dental appointment in a fancy clinic and I arrive with 5 minutes to spare.

I take a seat in the waiting room, scan the Arabic crowd and pick up The Times. I'm barely through the first paragraph when the receptionist walks in, hands me a clipboard and asks me to fill out the attached form: name, age, address, who is my doctor, usual stuff. I hand it back and, seconds later, my name is called out and my assigned dentist greets me in the doorway with a fixed smile, leading me down a passageway to his office. I walk behind him, having a flashback of me as a little boy being led into the Headmaster’s office; the grinning and bearded Mr Howley who kept a cane by his desk and took great delight in letting you see it. This 'headmaster' is a squat, middle-aged man with a shaved head and, I notice as he beckons me into his room, wisps of hair protruding from each nostril.  

Now we’re in his office. He shuts the door with a ‘click’, takes a seat behind his desk and invites me to take the seat opposite. I feel a bit nervous. Trapped. And, for no apparent reason, a vision suddenly materializes of him whipping his trousers down and forcing my head onto his equally squat cock. I shake the thought off quickly as he’s staring at me intently, discussing my cracked LL6 as if its safe removal is of national importance. I have three options apparently. One: An injection. Two: Sedation. Three: To be anaesthetised. I ask him the difference between Two and Three, thinking he'll want me to opt for ‘Three’ so that he can have a quick fiddle while I’m under. Silly really. In the end I opt for the 'out of it' approach (‘Two’) as I figure that way I'll be able to get high and remember it, all without the cost/comedown. Then he informs me that I will be assigned my own anaesthetist, which sounds a bit too Michael Jacksonish for my liking and I have to stop myself from falling to my knees, grabbing his leg and crying, ‘Please! I beg you! Not Demerol!’ 

While he’s scribbling my requirement down on a pad I have another strange thought; what if wake up and find out he’s removed the wrong tooth? I immediately start calculating how much I’d get if I sued him, where I’d take Jorge on holiday and if there’d be enough left over to buy a new tumble-dryer. Then he hands me a piece of paper and I snap back to reality, reminding him that I need an X-Ray and, worringly, he replies, ‘Oh yes! I’d almost forgotten!’ and he directs me to the X-Ray Department on the adjacent street.

After walking round the block twice I eventually find the right building, clocking a cute Security Guard with a goatee on the way in, before taking the lift to the basement where a Chinese girl hands me another clipboard, asking me to fill out another form, all without taking her eyes from her computer screen. I hand back the completed form and pick up The Times again, just settling back into the same paragraph when she squeaks, ‘They’re ready for you.’ ‘They’ turns out to be an attractive black girl with a smiley face, who points me to a stool, placing what tastes like a sherbet bomb in my mouth, while the X-Ray machine spins round my head. A few seconds later she hands me the X-Ray and I tell her, even more worringly, that it’s the dentist that needs it, not me. I'm now imagining that not only will I have the wrong tooth taken out but that I’ll wake up with Ugly Betty braces. 

As I leave I thank Smiley Face for her time, I ask the Chinese girl if I can take The Times (she says ‘yes’ without looking up) and I make my way back down Harley Street, toward Bond Street, thinking about a conversation a dentist once had with Quentin Crisp when he said, ‘It’s not your teeth that are falling apart my dear Quentin, it’s you!’