Or, more accurately, the two in the top jaw, left-hand side, that are giving me extreme grief. One is rotten and the one next to it, which seemed perfectly healthy, has just been reduced to half its previous width after a shattering experience with a stone in a piece of bread. I spat out many small splinters of enamel and dentine like a cat given pepper.
At the moment the newly naked stump doesn’t appear to hurt. Maybe it’s in shock. But the new sword-sharp edge is already criss-crossing my cheek with little nicks. Its rotten neighbour hurts intermittently – sometimes not at all, other times agonisingly. I have no idea what that’s all about.
How much longer, I wonder, am I going to have to wait for the promised certification which will allow free dental care? Despite the promise more than a week ago of immediate dispatch (along with some actual – gasp – money) nothing has appeared.
My grandfather apparently sat down heavily on a folding chair the year that one of the many versions of the above song was released. The chair duly folded and he knocked out his front teeth on his knees.
So it could have been worse. But I still want to go to a dentist, preferably well before Christmas.