The inevitable anxiety that
precedes a visit to the dentist was quickly dissipated when my man, after no
more than a cursory poke about, pronounced my teeth fit to continue unaided for
another eight months, although we did have the usual conversation about how
implants would improve my bite “but at your age probably isn’t worth the
trouble” (nor the expense methinks) and how I need to look after my one crown; I
said I never bit anything harder than a ginger nut, but as this perturbed
rather than reassured him, I speedily confirmed that even then I always dunked.
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