To dentists’ chocolate is the devil incarnate. It causes tooth decay, they say, which will lead to holes in your teeth, then fillings which might get infected, which may lead to an abscessed tooth, which might then turn into the need for a root canal, and then finally a glorious crown (which costs almost the same as a royal crown by the way). To women, when told such ridiculous warnings, all we hear is: blah, blah, bloody, blah.
I have very crap teeth. I also have a very hot dentist. These two factors mean I spend a lot of time at the dentist. Sometimes out of necessity. Sometimes not. At the behest of my beautiful dentist, in a few months time, I will be getting braces. At 40. If he’d recommended I try to grow another set of eyeballs I’d probably give that a go too.
Unfortunately, the aforementioned “chocolate equals teeth death” warning came spectacularly true for me on Saturday night. You see part of the many reasons for my impending metal-mouth torture is that I’ve always had bad teeth – not crooked as such – but not enough room for all them I suppose. It doesn’t help that I have a tendency to grind them in my sleep while I gnaw my way through the day’s events and several layers of tooth enamel apparently.
Coupled with other activities in my youth, by the time I was in my early 30s, my front teeth were about half the height that they should’ve been. Obviously not a good look so I got veneers, which six years later have cracked and are mere months away from breaking altogether. I don’t think such an eventuality will help me secure a date – although, of course, being toothless might have its advantages in some situations. But I digress.
On Saturday night, as a babysat my godson, I raided the fridge (as all decent babysitters do especially when they have to buy their own dinner as well) and I found a square of deep, dark, beatific chocolate. I heard it softly calling my name and I did not have the will power to resist its sweet “eat me Nicola” song. Also, when it came down to it, I was babysitting on a Saturday night. How bloody saintly is that? So, after checking my godson (who is nearly two and was fast asleep) was still breathing for about the 55th time in two hours, I ever-so-gently removed the chocolate from the fridge with a slightly evil, yet ultimately satisfied, smile.
I unwrapped it carefully, marvelling at its cocoa-perfection and lifted it towards my half-open lips (sounds like a sexy chocolate ad doesn’t it?). I took one bite and quickly realised, a little too late I might add, that dark chocolate that has been in the fridge for a number of months is actually quite hard. But continue biting I did, with quite some force, and I soon was rewarded with an explosion of flavour in my mouth. And then some weird crunchy bits.
Not to be deterred, I continued to munch on the rich goodness while simultaneously checking the wrapper to see whether it also contained any peanuts, almonds, or any type of nut at all. The answer was no (unlike this blog). Slowly, dreadfully, a rather distasteful realisation dawned on me. Those crunchy bits in my mouth were not nuts, of any kind, no they were part of my tooth. My front tooth.
I ran to the bathroom, spat out the chocolate/front tooth mix (a new flavour for Cadbury perhaps?) and with fear in my heart and mouth – boom boom – looked in the mirror. A chocolatey-row of reasonably intact teeth grimaced back at me. I leaned into the mirror and looked more closely. As I suspected, and my tongue had already told me, part of my front tooth had splintered off – but it was a top layer of the vaneer, not a chunk off the bottom, which was some miniscule consolation.
My spirits lifted immediately. Not only would I not have to resemble a Halloween pumpkin for the rest of the weekend, but on Monday morning I would have to make an emergency visit to my dentist so he could pop his instruments into my mouth once more.