Toothless

Saturday 5th March

Day 318

It was nothing to do with the delicate, crustless salmon and egg sandwiches or the creamy hummous or strawberry sponge flan, made for us by our dear niece-in-law on the occasion of their house warming. A piece of my tooth, a back molar, sheared off into my mouth anyway. I knew I wasn’t eating an olive, but that’s what it felt like - a shard of pip, a chip of stone, a foreign body in the soft pillows of high tea.

Now my tongue won’t leave it alone - that rough edged cave where my tooth used to be. A tiny sliver of me lost forever.