Time I faced face the hard tooth about lockdown

LOCKDOWN has been hard on the old gnashers. I’ve yet to have “falsies”, as an earlier generation called them, so the teeth have inevitably suffered.

It’s nigh on 18 months since I sat in a dentist’s chair and the signs were worrying. Without going into too much detail, two lumps fell off a molar, and I almost swallowed them.

I told Mrs R I’d put them under my pillow and complained that the tooth fairy hadn’t brought me a silver sixpence. “Here’s 5p,” she sympathised. “Keep the change!” All heart, my wife. My old dentist, Mr Sowter, has retired and the surgery phone number no longer functioned.

I signed with a new practice in Keighley. NHS treatment is available, but not until October 2022. I can’t wait that long, so stumped up 40 quid for a consultation.

It was worth it. My new dentist is a young Brazilian lady (with a Russian name), exceptionally thorough and charming with it.

She X-rayed the risk areas, and pronounced everything OK except a rock n’ roll molar that’s showing signs of looseness but fine for now.

The interesting ruin left by falling masonry didn’t seem to worry her, so it won’t trouble me either. I signed up for a proper scrub by a dental technician. £50.

Sorry to bother you with this minor dental drama, but it was such a pleasure to be out and about again, and there isn’t much else to report.

Except this: I’m truly grateful to Joseph, driver of the 66 service going back towards Skipton. He saw me waving madly and stopped his bus for the septuagenarian’s 100-yard dash to the stop. I’ve just about got my breath back.