Because the gel took five minutes to harden, I had a bit of time to think about poetic metaphors. Teeth can't regenerate or grow back once they are gone, you see (in saying this, my brother once lived with a woman who confidently assured a mutual friend that his front teeth, which fell out when he drunkenly tripped over his own shadow in the NUI Galway bar one afternoon, would "grow back". This same lady remarked, on another occasion, that Bulmers cider is different from other ciders because "it's made from apples", so maybe her claims need to be taken with a pinch of salt).
a filling or two should do the trick
Of course, I have those dreams about my teeth falling out. Standing weeping in a dole queue holding a palmful of teeth as big as dominoes, spitting hundreds of them all over a higher level leaving cert Irish exam that I am doing in the nude under Garda supervision, or feeling them crumble to chalk dust as I pathetically mouth the words "be with me" to Christina Hendricks. That sort of thing.
Hmmm, maybe it's not the dentist I need to see?
MP3: Mark Van Hoen-Where Were You
(I will write about his brilliant album soon)
Podcast news: the podcast returns on Friday.