I've been keeping this gem under wraps for a couple days now for fear of soiling my name in the greater community, but then I realised that I'd already tarnished my reputation by dating a man with hideous teeth (seriously pal, they've made great advances in the field of dentistry - get in one of them mechanised chairs), so there was little more sullying I could do.
I'm now ready to share.
Lately I've been pretty lazy about packing lunch for myself. You see, I'm not much of a sandwich person (unless it's filled with salted egg mayo, and made by someone else) and since there've been insufficient leftovers from dinner to feed much more than an ant on weigh-less, I've had to resort to the lunch buying practice.
It just so happens, however, that on some days, like that fateful Wednesday, I don't find the time to buy anything. Which, ultimately, causes mixed emotions in the "Oh-Good-Lord-Could-Fucking-Eat-My-Shoes-And-Don't-You-Dare-Look-At-Me-Like-That-You-Who-Put-The-U-In-Cunt" cross "This-Is-The-Longest-I've-Been-Without-Food-In-My-Entire-Life-I-Must-Have-Lost-Weight-Pig-Squeal-Of-Excitement-Reeeeeee" kind of way.
By the time the bell sounded signalling my release from employment for the day, I was all but ready to ingest the goop that collects under The Daughter's car seat. I visualised getting home and diving into a bottle of aubergine and thyme slow-roasted cherry tomatoes - with the olive oil dribbling down my chin like the juice does on that chick in the Liqui-Fruit ad. (On the subject, I'm heartily off Liqui-Fruit at the minute, based solely on the fact that their ads suggest that a) fruit juice is sexy, and b) Liqui-Fruit is laced with acid and the consumption of a glass of mango and orange will assist in hallucination. Not true. I tried it. The best I got was a mental image of dry-humping Jake Gyllenhall, but I get those when drinking any beverage of all descriptions including my morning tea.)
So I was rav. In a could-eat-the-wet-fart-of-a-low-flying-seagull manner. And then it dawned on me: The Daughter had late ballet practice and I'd have to busy myself for an hour before collecting her.
I made a bee-line for the local Spar (evidently, it's not my Spar), bared my teeth and ordered a pie. Their selection was limited. I chose chicken and mushroom, in spite of the fact that I do not believe in teaming chicken with mushroom and I am quite capable of making a chicken pie that will evoke a jizz-in-the-rods reaction. But, for fear of fatal anorexia setting in, I was in no position to exercise my right to choice.
I was barely in my car, before I tore at the pie wrapper as though it were a connie in the heat of the moment. There was no time to eye this pie lovingly. I opened my mouth - a sizeable entity - and wrapped my lips around that bad dog as though it were attached to Jake Gyllenhall. I bit down with ferocity.
Initially, I didn't realise what had happened. It was only when I transferred the food to my molars that I discovered hard bits. Two of them.
In spite of the hunger, I forced myself to fish out the hard bits: a bone. And three-quarters of my front tooth cap (originally broken as a result of a bicycling accident aged six).
I lifted the visor to inspect the gnashers, and what met my anxious gaze in the mirror was nothing short of Bergie. I almost expected to see remaining teeth spaced unevenly in varying hues of orange, brown and blue black. I wanted to speak but was afraid I'd utter something along the lines of, "Jou ma se poes, bliksem! Faizel gonna poesklap me when he checks my bek."
Strangely, the sheer embarrassment I felt nullified the intense hunger I'd moments before felt with such intensity. I snapped the mouth shut like one of those archaic cellphones. And opened it again to check if what I'd seen was real.
I used my sizeable top lip to cover offending vacuum in mouth and proceeded to ring the dentist.
The Pant: I need an appointment. Immediately.
Dentist's Receptionist: I'm terribly sorry, Ms Liner, but we're fully booked until next month.
TP: I'm sorry, Dear, but I don't think you realise the gravity of my situation. I'm missing a tooth. An important one.
DR: Which tooth?
TP: Well, if I count from the front teeth to the left, I get to ONE!!!!
DR: Oh! Is the whole tooth gone?
DR: Well, that's a relief.
TP: Oh, is it? I'm glad you're relieved. I, however, am not. Because what is left is a sharpened caninish FANG!
DR: In the front?
TP: IN THE FRONT!So unless you can wangle me a doctor's note for the next month while I drink myself into a deep depression, as well as a bona fide man from The Cape Flats who is generally quite impressed by a lady having fewer than normal teeth, I would organise me an appointment.
DR: Well. Let's see. I suppose it is an emergency.
TP: You suppose?
DR: How about ten-thirty tomorrow?
TP: I could quite easily open mouth kiss you right now.
TP: I suppose you'd prefer it if I waited until after the appointment?
With 18 hours to go, I had to excuse myself from work the following morning. Call me strange, but with my new-found tik-chic appearance, I was barely able to spend time with myself, let alone impressionable youths and colleagues.
I relayed the story to the boss lady.
Boss Lady: So, your appointment is at 1030. So you'll need to leave at about 1015?
The Pant: No, I'm missing a tooth.
TP: And, I'm not even going to speak to The Daughter until it is fixed let alone other people's children.
BL: Where is the tooth?
TP: Currently? Half in my mouth and the other half lying on the passenger seat in the tin casing from the pie.
BL: Well, where was the entire tooth before it broke?
TP: The front row.
BL: Okay. Compared with your front teeth?
TP: Next to those.
BL: Right. I'll see you when you've got a full head of teeth then.
That night, I didn't, for the first time since I can remember, have my pre-bed bath. I couldn't stand the thought of being naked with a person with missing front teeth.