Mind the gap

“Every time I go to the dentist they say, ‘You really need to fix that gap of yours’. I’m like, ‘My gap is paying your dentist bills.'”

Lara Stone

I grew up in the UK during the late 50s and the 60s – at a point at which British dentistry was busy earning itself a seriously poor reputation. Fluoridation was still a matter for argument – our parents’ generation were busily making up for the difficulty of obtaining sugar during the post-war years of austerity and – in the case of dental health for children – the public policy was one of “drill and fill”.

A generation of kids – self included – grew up seriously traumatised by such dental experiences.

Now – I had at the time what I took to be a charming gap between my two front teeth. My dentist – immune to that charm – decreed (and in those days one just went along with such ‘expert’ opinion) that the gap should be closed and he duly ordered for me an implement of torture designed to slowly force my two front teeth together by the slow turning of a screw. The device was hideously uncomfortable and cumbersome and I naturally did what (mildly) rebellious youths were expected to do.

Yet another visit to the dentist left the man in charge puzzled as to why his hideous apparatus was not having the desired effect and he was clearly keen to come up with some even more fiendish device for my next visit.

Before this could happen my brother obligingly resolved the issue. We were both keen cricketers (he considerably more talented than I) and we were regularly involved in scratch games on our local cricket green. My brother was possessed of a decent arm and could generate a fair bit of pace. On this occasion a short delivery leapt from the pitch and caught me square in the mouth. One of my front teeth was broken in half and – as it later transpired – the one next to it left in a permanently discoloured state. I had to have a crown fitted to the broken tooth, which at least finally dealt with the gap.

And thus things remained throughout the decades. We Brits are nowhere near as keen on cosmetic dentistry as are our North American cousins and I had finally reached an age at which I could tell my dentist to get lost, so my oddly coloured teeth became a fixture. As a result my smile has always been somewhat guarded and this has contributed in no small measure to my distaste for having my photograph taken.

Until recently…!

Now that I live in Canada things have taken a turn for the better, without my really having had to do anything about it. Whilst having some routine work done last year my new dentist decided that I must really want my discoloured tooth upgraded and – by means of some modern magic potion – rendered it into an almost acceptable tone without a word being spoken. Then – this year – a small piece of my by now venerable crown broke off and I had to have a new one made. After some helpful consultation – and by means of yet more magic – I now have a set of front teeth that actually look as though they are meant to be together. I guess I now look the way my UK dentist envisioned that I should more than fifty years ago. Wonders will never cease!

There – that didn’t hurt a bit…