‘What was that?’ asked Danielle.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said, ‘just my toothbrush falling into the washbasin.’
She looked at me at quizzically.
‘It may have been a suicide attempt,’ I added, blasé in my indifference to tragedy.
 |
| Alas, poor toothbrush. And yet tragedy was avoided. |
‘No harm done,’ I told Danielle, after a cursory examination. Well, the drop was only a few centimetres. Hardly fatal, even to a toothbrush.
‘I may have been more of a cry for help,’ I added after longer reflection.
I have to say I understand where the toothbrush was coming from. I mean, I’d hate it if I had to do its job. It stands around all day. Often, I don’t even leave it on its charger, so it can’t even get a little of that innocent buzz. Then it has to work inside my mouth, and usually at a time when it’s as unappealing as it ever is.
I can imagine the toothbrush saying to itself, ‘oh no! Back into that mouth when it’s at its least clean. All those furred-up teeth. The atmosphere of garlic compounded with coffee. Always the same. Outside upper – brush. Inside upper – brush. Inside lower – brush. Outside lower – brush. Mind-numbingly repetitive And he inflicts that routine on me twice a day, day after day, without any trace of pity.’
I can imagine the toothbrush wanting to end it all. Or at least attract some sympathetic attention to is dire destiny. It’s a dismal existence.
On the other hand, maybe I’m just projecting my own sentiments onto it. After all, it was designed for that one job and no other. And it does it well. Maybe when it sees me approaching to brush my teeth, it has a sudden surge of excitement, like our dogs when they see us coming their way with the leads.
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ it may be crying internally, ‘I was born for this! Show me those teeth, as grungy as possible, that I can make them shine again.’
Am I misinterpreting its feelings and assuming it shares mine? Because there are certain tasks I find almost unbearable in their dullness. And one of them is brushing my teeth. My toothbrush kindly tells me when I’ve spent half a minute on each area of my teeth – you know, upper outer, upper inner etc. And gives me a longer buzz when two minutes are up, at which point I stop with joy and alacrity. Just two minutes. And yet each time I start, the process ahead seems to stretch before me like some kind of endless purgatory.
It’s the same with refuelling the car. Freezing with the nozzle in the tank – somehow I always forget to put a coat on beforehand, and once I’ve started I refuse to interrupt the process to fetch one – I stand watching the dials spinning around, with the price dial gallingly spinning more quickly than the litres and, like brushing my teeth, it’s a brief task that looks endless at the beginning.
The same is true of having to get on a bus after leaving an aircraft, rather than walking up a jetway straight into the terminal. I find it maddening even though I know the walk will be shorter at the other end. Standing in queues is deadly too, especially at post offices, airports or, worse still, supermarket checkouts. What is it with those people who only seem to remember after they’ve lovingly packed away their purchases, that they actually have to purchase them? And therefore really, really have to find their purse or wallet?
So maybe it is just my feeling of tedium at the toothbrushing task that makes me suspect attempted suicide by my toothbrush. Or at least, an attempted cry for help. Maybe it’s nothing of the sort, and the toothbrush is proud of its work, as we all are when we do a job well, as it undoubtedly does. Even my dentist says so.
It’s possible, I suppose. But that notion does leave a key question unanswered, doesn’t it?
Why did it fling itself off the rim of the washbasin the other night?
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