Last week I was having a light lunch at home. It was delicious, a smoked salmon salad followed by a rather juicy pear. Nothing crunchy or chewy to wreck havoc in my mouth so no reason for the sudden and inconvenient loss of my pretty gold tooth. I knew immediately that it had gone but I couldn’t see it anywhere. I could though feel something stuck in my gullet. It couldn’t be, I thought. It not only could have gone down my throat – it did.
Maybe you don’t need too graphic a description of the daily search but just believe me, it wasn’t a pleasant job. I tried the lesser evil of two options. I drank salty water and put my fingers down my throat. All I did was vomit some blood but I could definitely feel my sharp-edged tooth telling me that it had no desire to re-emerge in that direction. Actually, friends told me off for trying this as I could’ve swallowed it again but down the wrong way. As it went on its rather uncomfortable and much too intimate journey, I could track its, um, passage having the distinct sensation of something sharp descending to where the sun don’t shine. My patience and thoroughness was worthwhile though because, on the third day, I found it – just as I was giving up all hope of seeing it again. After a short bleach bath, it looked as good as new.
The hunt-the-tooth game was a useful exercise in getting over what was maybe my last taboo. I’m squeamish no longer. Today, I returned to my dentist but only told her that I “found” it. This story is on a strictly need-to-know basis. The tooth is now back in place and I feel like I’ve got my street-cred back. Phew.
——————————————————————————————————————– I’m getting ready for the imminent publication (31st October 2013) of my first novel, Stephen Dearsley’s Summer Of Love, the story of a young fogey living in Brighton in 1967 who has a lot to learn when the flowering hippie counter culture changes him and the world around him.
