Vicky Ewan: 'Open wide and hope for a cavity free result'

It feels as though I have had more than my fair share of all things dental of late. Toothache, absentee dentures, erupting molars… you could say I’ve had it up to my back teeth with them. For years, I paid my own set little heed except for daily brushing and occasional bursts of more diligent attention with flossing and mouthwashes. 

My brother and I harbored a childhood fascination for dental disclosing tablets, which, when chewed, would cause a bright pink residue to cling to areas of the teeth that required a more thorough application of the brush. 

They were not inexpensive, and were by no means a regular purchase, but we could sometimes apply sufficient powers of persuasion to cajole our kind mother into relinquishing the means with which to procure a box. Assets secured, we would race to the local pharmacy and return triumphant a short while later, intent upon our somewhat grotesque task. Those small dental aids were instrumental in galvanising my dental efforts in my youth - albeit on a transient basis. Flushed with the smugness of a cavity-free childhood, I was less exacting in my twenties (although I still brushed regularly and had twice-yearly check-ups) and needed a greater level of dental intervention in my thirties and beyond. 

I was fortunate indeed to find, some years ago, an excellent NHS dentist whose skills were second to none, and things tootled along pleasantly for a good while. 

Recently, however, the practice has curtailed its NHS services and, faced with the choice of paying for the services of my dentist and preserving the rapport I had built up with him or losing him and risking not finding another - EVER, if the current climate is any indication - I played it safe and agreed to switching to a private scheme. 

It’s slightly painful every month (my Direct Debit commitment, not my jaw), but it has reinstated my resolution to be more disciplined with my teeth: daily flossing and mouth-washing have resumed. 

Since my elder daughter relocated to London, she has not yet secured a dentist. She has beautiful, brace-straightened teeth and a million-dollar smile, but I fear she may soon come a cropper unless she registers with a practice somewhere. 

The problem again, of course, is the lack of NHS provision. I have suggested to my daughter that it really doesn't matter where she finds one - she will only have to travel there once or twice a year. Somehow, I sense that will fail to eradicate the problem, but it’s worth further investigation.

At the other end of the scale, my youngest son is still juvenile enough to be losing his baby teeth. This gruesome phenomenon lost its novelty appeal some time ago, and is now just an experience he endures.

Not even the hovering promise of the Tooth Fairy’s midnight visitations are sufficient recompense for the mild trauma that has lately accompanied his dental shenanigans (in fairness, though, this is probably attributable to the Scrooge-like stinginess of our assigned Fairy, who seems to have no idea about inflation and has declined to respond to the Cost of Living Crisis). 

One recent evening, as we were enjoying a rare treat of takeaway pizzas as a pre-birthday celebration for him, I suddenly realised he had been absent for a significant period of time. Concerned, I sought him out, and discovered him pacing the kitchen with his fingers in his mouth, trying to extract a molar whose wobbliness was preventing him from partaking of the delectable food. I offered (fairly useless) suggestions, administered (largely unheeded) words of comfort, and generally hung around as he wrestled with the tooth, likely doing more harm than good. 

This state of affairs continued past the point where I thought anything was likely to change, with my son becoming increasingly desperate and my pizza becoming increasingly cold. Just when I was on the verge of telling him to throw in the towel, he bent forward, withdrew his fingers from his mouth, and triumphantly held aloft the recalcitrant tooth!

I was overjoyed - perhaps less so when he waved around the gore-soaked tissue he was using to stem the bloody gap like a flag-bearer in some kind of ghoulish victory parade. But at least he (and I) could return to the feast, unimpaired. 

This latest battle resolved, I try to comfort myself that he can't have many more to lose now. In the meantime, noting his indifference to placing this well-fought prize under his pillow, I think I’d better have a word with the Tooth Fairy.