Two Front Teeth

Flying has been a feature of my life. I cannot begin to calculate how many flights I have been on. Not all of them have begun in Luton.  There is one flight that could be described as a short haul flight that has turned into the longest haul flight in the history of flight. You might say it is a flight with teeth.

If the Wright brothers could establish the principle of man and machine acting in perfect unity, how hard could it be for one small girl, propelled by billowing folds of only a brush nylon nighty, to also achieve flight?

Take off went according to plan. Lack of depth perception meant that a wall I thought was somewhere over there, was in fact now in contact with my face and my days of independent flight had come to an undistinguished end.

After my ten-year-old friends had picked themselves up off the ground and before they had stopped laughing, I retired wounded and humiliated to nurse my bleeding mouth. If only I had seen that wall.

Pound for pound, that short flight has turned out to be more expensive than a first class Emirates ticket to Sydney. It has proved to be considerably less pleasant that the hospitality of Emirates airline. My girlish cavorting resulted in the death of my front tooth and the indignity of a crown.

While the dentist may feel smug about the longevity of his work, I have excellently curated the aforementioned tooth with daily flossing, skilled brushing and a regular polish. My shortcoming is that the same vanity that led me to think my brush nylon nighty would keep me aloft, led me to think that I do not have accidents. The available evidence would suggest otherwise.

My knees have never been quite the same since I went headlong over a tow bar I had not spotted. After my thirty something year old companions picked themselves up off the floor, and before they had finished laughing, I retired to nurse my bleeding knees. If only I had seen that tow bar.

Confident in the knowledge that the pavement I was on was not coming to an end, I fell off the end. When my fifty something year old companion picked himself up and smothered his amusement at this slapstick moment, I did not retire to nurse my bleeding mouth, but dabbed it with a tissue and carried on. 

I concede there was a horrible moment when I thought I might have knocked my teeth out and lamented the uselessness of my cane as it languished in my handbag. It would seem that I do make mistakes after all.

A nagging sense that all was not well with my tooth led the Dentist to x-ray it. “That’s strange, it looks like a serious trauma injury,” he said.

I shook my head, dredging the depths of my memory for possible causes.  Smashing my face on the ground never occurred to me as one of them.

“Come back on Monday for a scan and we’ll discuss your treatment plan.”

I think it might be vanity that has led me to this place.  It’s a double edged sword. Vanity makes me believe there is always a way to do things, it’s just a question of how. Vanity may  be what makes me leave my cane in my bag when sometimes I shouldn’t.  Vanity may have benefits but comes at a price.

Implants are an expensive business. There’s bound to be a way to pay for this. A treatment plan? I might look into crowd funding. Whichever way you cut it, I won’t be flying anywhere for a while, unless the anaesthesia has something to offer.

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