Such a chore to do this every day – the ritual, almost comforting. The paraphernalia; the tube, the paste the bowl, the taps twisted and water gurgling down the hole. The squeezing of the tube as if it’s a pimple ready to burst, the pussy slug of paste escaping and lying prostrate ready for sacrifice on the jagged bristles. The momentary passage of the wash beneath the tap. Arms flying into egg whisk mode, the arms pumping up and down like a frenzied sewing machine, welding the fluoride into the enamel, pumping it in double barrel shotgun bursts of fluoride, sweet tasting fiery biting on the suckers of the tongue fluoride. A river is flowing a strange sensation as the arm flips the brush over and begins to mine-sweep the other side of the canyon of my mouth like a street cleaning cart going by.

Teeth are being sand-papered into a glossy white ray of sunshine, and when the brush has done it’s last circular buzz-cuts, a flem of paste and blood and spit shatters the virgin white peace of the bowl. The faucet’s silvery handles are ripped on full and an oasis forms between cupped hands to quench the burning fluoride forest fire in the cave of my mouth. How safe is that – really? The brush is rinsed too, then sat like a beheaded chicken on the stand that has leached itself to the otherwise drab wall of the steamy bathroom. Ready now, safe fresh breath confidence – for a couple of hours ate least……I swear there’s a ring or halo emanating from my mouth…..or perhaps that’s the power of advertising!