My Very Own Collection of Ordinary Things; Teeth comprises of wax casts of my teeth inlaid in small boxes made from soft drinks cans and presented in plastic, ziplock bags. The piece is suggestive of the visual appeal of sweets or confectionary, jewel-like, wrapped in brightly coloured, sparkly papers. On closer inspection, however, they take on a more macabre tone of redundant molars and sterile incisors entombed in the vehicle of their own decay.

I have bad teeth. Although I clean them at least two, sometimes three or four times a day the relatively good condition of my smile belies the devastation that lurks in the recesses of my mouth.

In my formative years my molars were subjected to an onslaught of reconstruction. An ordeal initiated by well meaning, though arguably ill-advised, parents whose motivation was a precautionary intervention prompted by the revelation of a slight crookedness that had established itself in my brother's teeth.

My experience is such that I impose upon my son the importance of looking after his teeth. Some years ago, after a visit to his Nursery Class by the school dentist, I asked him what she had said. He proudly informed me that she had told him that his teeth were 'nice and bright'.

'That's because you clean them properly' I said smugly, seizing the opportunity.

'No,' he contested, 'she had a torch.'

Paul Eames