This story begins on a flight back from Paris to London. I was eating a cough sweet to clear my ears, when I found myself crunching on something that definitely wasn't Strepsil-flavoured.
In the airport I dashed to the loo and had a look in my mouth – half my crown had gone.
I had a very good idea where.
That same day I got the crown patched up at an emergency dentist. As I lay there and tried to ignore what was going on in my mouth, I thought again how much I had always disliked having this crown in. Having to fix the wretched thing was the last straw. I was also conscious of the way my teeth had grown crooked around it. Not a world-shattering problem, perhaps, but still, a constant niggle at the back of my mind ...
I asked the dentist if there was any possibility of having the crown removed and getting my teeth straightened. It was a long shot; I thought I was way past the age when these things are possible. I was surprised when he said yes – and even more surprised to find it wouldn't cost the earth.
The dentist fixed me an appointment with an orthodontist who worked at their branch in Baker Street.
OK, I thought. Just an appointment and a few questions. That can't hurt.
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