Last Tuesday a toffee eclair plucked my tooth clear away from my gum. A terrifying tongue sweep followed. It felt awful hollow in my mouth. As I attempted to retrieve the extraction from the toffee I struggled to remember if I’d had a real tooth, a root filling or a crown. I took the tooth to the dentist where she made an identification. It is a crown and she may be able to do a make-do and mend job on it. Cheaper than being fitted for a new crown. That was an expensive eclair. Obviously I swore off all toffees for the rest of my teeth-bearing days.
A day or two before the unlucky chew I’d committed to a paint job on our hallway and upstairs landing. The painter has his work cut out for him – a 1912 early Edwardian house that’s been neglected along the way, the walls and skirting need repairing, rendering, cementing, painting and glossing. Yesterday as I sat in the dentist’s chair, mouth ajar and eyes shut I caught snatches of conversation between the dental nurse and my dentist. My root was flushed out and drilled, the tooth was polished. The nurse was instructed to make cement. I was shown the metal posts that would be screwed into the tooth to link it with my gum. I felt an affinity with my home. Relics, both.