Crack!

The noise was quite loud, to me anyway. Y’know, in the way that things tend to be really loud when they occur in your own mouth. It was probably silent to anyone else who might have been in earshot.

I knew there was something wrong immediately, and after spitting out the mouthful of sandwich (a home-made pastrami club, what a waste) I could feel a gaping whole on the side of one of my rear teeth.

Things always feel bigger in your mouth than they really are, which I suppose explains the disappointment of any woman I’ve slept with who was kind enough to give me a blow job first. Though it doesn’t explain the disappointment of the ones who did not give me a blow job. Anyway.

With the aid of a torch and a mirror I managed to get a good look at the offending tooth, which had already been repaired many years ago with a filling. A pretty small chunk of the tooth had fallen off the side of one of my molars, and the size of the missing piece reinforced just how bad the tongue is as an instrument of measurement.

I phoned the dentist.

“I’m afraid the only time she can see you this week is Thursday. The next appointment after that is next Tuesday.” said the receptionist at my local Bupa approved dentist.

“But I have a HOLE IN MY TOOTH!” I pointed out calmly.

“I understand that Sir, but we just don’t have any appointments.”

“You don’t understand, the hole FEELS MASSIVE!”

“It’s OK, in my experience these things tend not to be as big as you think.” she concluded, in a tone that suggested she had spent her lunch hour gossiping with a gaggle of my ex-girlfriends.

This is what happens when you go private. I am now reduced to spending the week eating soft foods and only drinking things that are room temperature for fear of squealing like a council estate lottery winner every time something hot or cold touches my tooth.

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