Written by Gordon Aspey
2 June 2020
There are some things you don’t want to happen in rural France especially if your French is not up to par. I spent a small fortune on my lower denture a week before leaving the UK. A slice of French toast made light work of them. This was the second time my teeth had let me down, the cost of replacing them was getting disproportionate to what I spend on other parts of my body. My feet are in need of a bit of TLC and my err….
‘We’ll skip the detail, well it’s personal!’
My first thoughts were to make do with a bit of Evostick and save my wrath for the dentist when I returned home. The trouble is I look like the village idiot without my lower denture. And there was another problem…our daughter Kaz had gone to a lot of trouble to organize the extra special surprise for Babs 80th birthday.
She had booked the services of a swanky Chateau. A four-course menu, all the wine we could drink, heated swimming pool, fitness center, the lot. I was sworn to secrecy. The whole family would be turning up except our youngest son; he lives in Beijing and couldn’t get a ticket because of the Olympic games.
Well, I couldn’t go to the banquet with dodgy teeth. I would have to get them fixed.
The French dental mechanic eagerly pointed to the sale sign outside his house and beckoned me with outstretched arms to enter and have a look round.
‘No-no’ I said and showed him my broken denture.
He looked disappointed, but opening the tissue wrapper he said sniffily ‘Vera poor’, not possible be good.’
‘Okay! -Combien?’ I enquired, determined not to get ripped off?’
‘Scuse?’ He said.
Well, it isn’t easy speaking in any language with half your mouth missing.
More ur-mming and arr-ing, throat clearing, shoulder shrugging as he tried to figure out the cost.
The next half hour was as complicated as things get with teeth in France. There was much confusion as to what he was going to do with my teeth.
At one point he seemed to be hovering in a threatening manner over the waste paper basket.
In desperation I called Babs still chatting on her mobile. She could practice her prewar schoolgirl French on him. I’m not convinced of her ability to parly with the local inhabitants despite the insistence her vocabulary was fine. The glazed look and twitching mouth on the dental mechanics face displayed the sort of admiration reserved for the seven wonders of the world – but Hey! She’s my wife and she’s a worthy contender.
‘I think he said the teeth could be fixed by lunch time, ‘ muttered Babs, her features crumpled with uncertainty.
‘Are you sure?’, they don’t work lunch times down here.’
I needn’t have worried, he finished the job by early afternoon and he made a grand job charging me only thirty-five Euros. I was delirious and singing the praises of French dental mechanics for two whole days.
On the third day eating became more uncertain and developed into a tortuous exercise. Gradually every mouthful became an ooh-ouch experience. The denture had worn a painful groove down the center of my gum.
‘You must take them back’ insisted Babs.
‘No thanks! I don’t want another say it in French day. No, I’ll just grit my teeth and put up with it for the time being. At least I can lose a bit of weight.’
There was a need for me to lose a few pounds. According to the medical charts I was a borderline case of clinical obesity. What surer way to reduce food intake when every mouthful brings tears and shrieks of agony.
I could successfully lose weight in no time without any fancy calorie controlled diet and regain my youthful Adonis like figure. Perhaps I should write to the Lancet and tell them about my new Fleming like discovery.