Escape

Posted on 24 Jul 2008 at 17:37

 

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Technology is moving at such mind-boggling speed that even the most mundane items become exciting luxuries.

The occupants of the McRobbie hovel are concerned with only two things this fortnight; to pretend otherwise would be nothing less than a sham of a falsehood of a whopper of a fib and frankly, good reader, unlike Tom Cruise, you can handle the truth. So, while the impending release of the iPhone 3G might raise an eyebrow over dinner, and speculation about Bill Gates' retirement gift (A really big watch? Or a really tiny one that would fit on the head of a pin?) can fill a Sunday afternoon lull, there are only two things that Husband and I can get excited about.

One is the end of Doctor Who Series 4, which I'll spare you, and the other is our new toothbrush. I apologise in advance to anyone on the brink of marriage, incidentally; I hope this doesn't put you off in any way. To be honest, we would have been excited about these things even when we were freewheeling singletons, we're just those sort of people. Go through with it, I implore you. You've booked the marquee and everything, and your mother's probably bought a hat.

So, our toothbrush. I'm not just talking about any old toothbrush, you understand, but the daddy of all toothbrushes, the Philips Sonicare HX6932/10 Flexcare Sonic Toothbrush with UV. So packed with technowizardry that it outranks most of the beige widgets in Husband's Museum of Obsolete Mac Crap. It's so expensive that the average West Country dwelling professional couple can only afford one handset with a swappable head each. This is a toothbrush at the apex of toothbrush design, a toothbrush to make dentists weep and hygienists pack up their curettes and retire to a Bali beach shack. When the Flexcare arrived, in layers of protective packaging, I fancied I heard the swelling of an orchestra in my mind, and the sound of the plaque quaking with fear within my very molars. Truly, toothbrush nirvana had arrived.

After an agonising 24 hours of charging, Husband stepped up to the sink to take the Flexcare on her maiden voyage. Having studied the manual carefully, we were schooled on the variety of settings available to both the casual and serious toothbrusher; the one-minute scrubdown for the busy executive making a quick escape from an embarrassing inter-office awayday romance; the luxuriant three-minute 'max care' mode, featuring gum massaging action; and even a 'sensitive' option, for interwar poets and acoustic singer-songwriters. Husband opted for 'max care' and reported it to be 'earth-shattering'.

With trepidation, and the fear that my teeth may splinter into a million fragments, I took up the Flexcare and brushed until my nose vibrated like a jackhammer on a clothesline. Afterwards, my teeth felt as clean and shiny as bathroom tiles, and I exploded in a frenzy of poor similes. Henceforth I shall have the cleanest teeth in Christendom.

And the ludicrously highly-specced toothbrushy fun didn't end with the rinse, no sir! Because my Flexcare comes with an exciting UV cleaning station, a little hub in which the cleaning heads go to be zapped with bacteria-thwarting ultra-violet rays. Such is the power of the UV cleaning station that it is emblazoned with warning stickers and sports a little window through which the eerie glow of the lamp lights up your bathroom.

Okay, yes, I do feel guilty for blowing so much cash on a toothbrush. I've just masochistically worked out that I could have bought three perfectly adequate old-school toothbrushes a year for the next 38 years. I'll have to lull myself to sleep with the knowledge that the Flexcare still cost less than my last visit to the dentist.