At the dentist a couple of weeks ago, whilst he tugged and levered a stoutly resisting molar, I wondered what they see when looking inside a mouth. My dentist was sweating slightly, because pulling on the tooth had taken half an hour, and got us nowhere. He suggested we cut it into quarters and do one bit at a time.
He got some sort of dental hacksaw, and go to work, muttering in grey, too near for focus, about the ‘strange morphology’ of my tooth.
To take my mind away, I wondered whether he considered the historical record that mouths present – my mouth in particular. Was the decay a tell tale sign of the sweets and pepsi phase I went through in the late eighties? Are there any traces left of Ed, university champion roll-up smoker and drinker of gallons of tea (being no good at drinking alcohol)?
I wondered if the few white fillings purchased in flush times before children, now coffee stained, are testimonials of my fall in the world, or whether it was just age, time passing, creeping entropy that he saw described in my ivories.