There’s that weird pink one for smokers that just about blows my tongue off, it’s so strong. And the striped stuff. I never quite got how they make the stripes. Perhaps I’ll slit a tube open with a Stanley knife and find out.
It’s an odd thing, waking with mouth tasting so stale, and the first urge is to get up and brush teeth rather than risk breathing on anyone. And if the window’s been shut, the whole bedroom stuffy with our breath. Shouldn’t it be all sweet and lovely? Or are these toxins, derived from unnatural eating and tainted food?
Mind you, I bet raw-meat-eating cavemen had pretty stinky breath in the morning, too.
The bristles become splayed and curved over time, and I should institute a three-monthly replacement scheme, but somehow I don’t. When I finally get around to it, the new one’s so much stiffer that my gums hurt, and maybe bleed.
Yet, despite all efforts (well – except flossing – always seems pointless and ineffective and cumbersome) the tartar builds up on my incisors, and at the six-monthly check has to be buzzed off with the ultrasound buzzer.
“If you need me to stop, just raise your hand.”
I moan occasionally, and twist on the couch, but as a point of pride, try so hard not to interrupt the torture. I will not confess.
Finally released, I’m directed to the white plastic cup of pink liquid that sits in the swirly sink. I gargle, spit blood, and pat my face clean with a paper tissue.