Pre "fridge cleaning"
I decide that there are a growing list of words and phrases that I dislike. Some of these are ‘unlucky,’ ‘5% failure rate in dental implants,’ ‘infection,’ ‘liquid diet,’ and anything remotely related to teeth.
The cat watches me from the chair as I sit at the dining room table. My son stands behind the cat. [translation = body guard] I worry about the little furry bits. I worry so much about the furry bits that I run to fridge to grab a large bottle of horseradish sauce. The bottle it also well past it’s sell by date, but it’s further past it’s sell by date than the roast beef. I poke the roast beef with a fork. [translation = vital signs] I smother the little furry bits with a half a bottle of sauce. I work on the theory that there are enough preservatives in both foodstuffs to sustain life. [translation = my own]
Whilst Scottish people are notorious for their penny pinching ways, I have another agenda. I remind myself of the starving millions and the campaign to ban waste. The beef was purchased at vast extravagance. I had planned to put it in a sandwich to demonstrate how fabulous and functional my teeth are, now that we have dispensed with braces. Now, several weeks later I am still unable to put that perfect crescent bite into anything more substantial than porridge. I am resolved to eat the beef regardless, as a gesture of stoicism. I am fairly confident that the horseradish will kill the fur. Since I am also an expert bacteriologist I decide that the best I can hope for, is that the fur on my food kills the bacteria on the dental implants. [translation = infection is the main culprit for implant failure]
I attempt to eat before solid food is banned again. The pain in my bleeding gums is as nothing by comparison to the pain in my bleeding bank balance and dwindling pride. I introduce the two sets of bacteria to one another and try to swallow as I recall the surgeon mentioning ‘run down’ and ‘increased likelihood.’ I pat myself on the back for not striking back, that I refrained from pointing out the causal relationship between ‘liquid diet’ for 7 months and ‘run down.’ I have gone from skinny to stick insect in as many months. [translation = in dire need of a square meal before I disappear entirely]
He wrinkles his nose, pulls a face, turns on his heel and stalks off. My son copies the cat. I am left alone at the table, rotting quietly. I dither and then reluctantly return to the kitchen sink. [translation = the garbage disposal unit wins again]