The dentist counts my grey hairs whilst I lie back and think of… my teeth. They are rooted in my gums, set like small rocks in the ground that have always been there, placed in a formation to encourage unclothed witchy dancing on a midsummer’s midnight in my mouth. Something must be wrong with my teeth or I wouldn’t be here. Perhaps something has shifted and caused an interruption to the traditional annual nude dance. I look around the room whilst the dentist finishes the grey hair count, which is just an additional service he provides to his favourite patients. One long wall in the surgery is shelving filled with cassette tapes, all in their little plastic boxes and identified by scrawled black writing on their white labels. “One hundred and thirty one grey hairs,” declares the dentist. Then he takes out his dictophone, puts in a fresh tape and hits record: “So, tell me…” the dentist begins, speaking slowly and clearly into the microphone. I record my toothy problems on to cassette, including my thoughts about the dancing as I know he appreciates this kind of whimsical approach to dentistry. This monologue will eventually be added to all the other cassette tapes and stay there, forming a permanent record of all the dentist’s achievements until one day when he takes his clothes off, plays all the tapes at once and dances around the surgery.