That was a really unsatisfactory visit to the dentist. I knew that things weren’t as they should be, back in the grinding department. All of my back teeth hurt or, rather, don’t feel right. Some feel very wrong for brief periods, others sort of mooch about, in a ne’er do well sort of way, grumbling and moaning.
The dentist agreed that there were problems. She shook her head at the x-rays, pointing out areas of sub-optimality. But nothing was quite wrong enough to merit an intervention.
So home I came, with teeth neither right nor wrong, and nothing to be done about it. Except for the prohibitively expensive implant option to replace my favourite tooth, the one that, after a lifetime of magnificent service went and got an abscess and had to be euthanised. I shed actual tears over that tooth, and for a time I would contemplate it, Hamlet like, with the skull of Yorick. Then it fell on the floor and got hoovered up.
The trouble with all this is that it means that I live in my mouth at the moment. It’s more or less all I think about, except for the occasional diversion into cricket, or, even less frequently, hanky-panky. Sometimes the three get mixed up together, in a way satisfactory to none of the parties involved.
Maybe if my petty cash situation improves I might go and get one of those dodgy Hungarian implants they advertise at the back of the Telegraph. I’ll probably end up with some kind of tusk, like a boar or a narwhal.
On the plus side, my dentist said I have the gums of a much younger man, and she praised my flossing in a way that, clutching at straws, I’m going to take as mildly flirtatious.