of dentistry

... and there is a journal title I never, ever wanted to use again.

For those of you new to the happy world of Colleen And Her Teeth, this whole drama began when I was a mere stripling of eight years old, having great fun at an adventure camp for wee 'uns. Then my best friend hit me around the face with a canoe paddle. As you do. Half of the front right hand tooth fell out, and that was the end of that.

Except it sort of wasn't, because the tooth that was left went and died on me. About four, nearly five years ago, I had the whole thing filed down and a permanent crown was put on it. By 'permanent' I mean 'It fell out when I was eating toast with flickerswitch in college when I was 17.'

I was pissed off. Unfortunately, I can't find the journal entry where I detail the last time this happened, but I was completely assured that this was was permanent and would last unless I got hit in the face again with a canoe paddle.

I have not been hit in the face with anything. To be precise, I was walking along, bit down whilst walking (not sure why) and... crunch.

I know that crunch noise. It is my worst enemy. It went crunch, but I wasn't spitting out any bits of teeth although the ominous throbbing of having poked the remaining nerves was still there. I panicked utterly and went to clean my teeth very gingerly. Half the crown fell off.

I made a wailing noise that was partially panic and partially pain. It went both ways.

I didn't sleep well last night. I dreamt of werewolves trying to break into work, and of the dentist laughing at me. It wasn't good. I woke up and felt sick with the wierd throbbing of toothache and of blind panic that I wouldn't be seen to. Nevertheless, because I am apparently channelling the spirit of Mother Theresa, I still went into work, except with a healthy side-portion of begging the Matron to let me off to phone the dentist and then to let me go and see him. She let me do so, possibly because my hideous grin (the inside of crowns is blue - who knew?) was scaring the residents.

I phoned, I made an appointment (I may have begged) and in I went for 11am sharp. I have a feeling the dentist was expecting a toothache and to prescirbe some antibiotics. I don't think he was expecting to pull out the remainder of a crown, fix on a temporary one and, bless him, measure me for the replacement. (The only other time this could have been done I was in Italy. I informed him of this and as horrified to find that I was about to start crying because oh my god I know how long this whole process takes.) An hour later, I staggered out with no feeling in my nose or indeed lower face and managed to drive back to work and manage to continue working for a further three hours.

Did I mention that I'm currently undergoing the delightful sensation of a cold caught off a 102 year old woman? Because I am, and I am terrified of sneezing out this ill-fitting temporary cap.

This is all... old news, though. I've done all this before. EXCEPT OH WAIT THAT NASTY AFTERTASTE IS NOT JUST THE TASTE OF ADHESIVE.

Oh no. All this malarky is costing me a shiny total of £194.00.

This new crown had better last. And better be made from fucking gold to make up for the fact I'm not eating until after Christmas. Excuse me, I'm going to go and eat nice food (but not the toffee I had waiting because that's just asking for trouble) and drink wine and watch Wicked.

BUT! HEY! I just looked at my profile and spacellama got me a V-Gift! WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED? Aww, a smile is on my face, albeit a hideously expensive one. Very belated thanks!