On a recent Sunday afternoon, I was browsing an outdoor Christmas market and munching on a particularly crisp and crunchy apple. At one point, I bit down onto a hard piece of grit and, running my tongue along my teeth, realised the trusty old filling behind my front tooth had finally been dislodged.
A stalwart of my smile, it had been snugly in place since my front tooth was chipped for the first time when someone catapulted into me during an aggressive game of “it” in the primary school playground, and for the second time on the rim of a Cherry Lambrini bottle at a house party in my teens (ah, time’s cruel march).
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