“Well, the truth hurts,” muttered my dentist, “or, should I say, the ‘tooth’ hurts!” I groaned at the pain in my mouth, and at the pun.
He peered back into my gob, “I think I can save your molar, but it’s a 50/50 chance.”
Those were pretty good odds, so I gave him the thumbs up; which was all I could do with my jaws prised apart. Because, in spite of my best efforts, and lots of flossing, I’d managed to crack a back tooth.
“Remember, avoid pork crackling and hard lollies in future,” the dentist warned me as I reeled from his surgery, “and see how you go over the weekend,” he added.
It suddenly dawned on me that getting dental work done last thing on a Friday afternoon was not very smart. Much cleverer people would have picked a weekday morning appointment, so if they noticed anything wrong once the anaesthetic wore off, they’d be able to high-tail it back to the tooth-yanker the same day.
Anyway, I survived the weekend, but the jury’s still out on whether or not my split molar will stay in my head. On a medical scale of 1 to 10, it’s barely a blip, but I’ve become a bit attached to my teeth; all of them.
Apart from surviving regular soakings in sugary and alcoholic drinks, they’ve been hit, knocked, punched, chipped, kicked and on two memorable occasions, head-butted. And people will tell you soccer is a non-contact sport.
Up ‘til now, I’ve always come back smiling; once I’d spat out all the blood.
Of course, I’m still hoping to have a full set of ivories when they lay me to rest at, say, one hundred and eleven, but the odds on that happening aren’t real good.
And that’s the painful ‘tooth’.