My sins have officially caught up with me.

I knew this day would come, but I glibly carried on regardless. All those days of idly reaching into the fridge for another bit of chocolate, all those evenings spent tucked up under the duvet, armed with a good book and a huge handful of Haribo, all those nights sneaking downstairs, pretending to get a drink, but actually eating a biscuit instead. All of those naughty sinful little moments have finally crept up on me, to bite me royally in the arse.

No, it’s not a frightening result on the scales; though lord knows I deserve to weigh the same as a buxom hippopotamus, given what I consume on a daily basis. No, this time, I’ve been caught out by my teeth. Or one tooth, to be more concise.

It started niggling away about four days ago. I ignored it, and carried on eating sweets. I even told myself (and everyone else) that it was nothing to do with tooth decay, but actually to do with my sinuses. However, by the third day, when I was having to forcibly support my jaw with my palm to stop myself from letting it drop and shrieking with pain, I finally acknowledged that a) it wasn’t a cold and b) I might actually need to go to the dentist. Fast.

I fondly imagined he’d just tell me I needed another filling. That wouldn’t be a problem, I smugly thought. I’ve got loads of the buggers, I thought, nothing new there. Hence, the words ‘root canal surgery’ somewhat took me back.

The further words of ‘eight hundred pounds’ (uttered by my dentist back home, an evil po-faced South African woman, who had clearly never enjoyed a jelly sweet in her miserable, lemon-lipped life) were even more alarming. Followed by the realisation that I couldn’t afford it. Hence, the phrase ‘root canal surgery’ suddenly morphed into ‘losing the tooth’.

So that is where we’re at. The tooth goes tomorrow. And oh, the irony…it’s being extracted at 2:30. Tooth-hurty. I’d laugh, but I’m too busy being majorly grumpy (not to mention bricking it) about the whole thing. As I sat down to our fajitas tonight, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor mouldy little tooth, and mentally, I apologised to it. Poor thing, enduring years and years of crunching down on impossibly hard toffees, of being coated in sugar in the wee small hours and not being cleaned afterwards. The fajitas were like it’s last meal…before it officially became a ‘dead tooth walking’. Or ‘chomping’ I should say.

DB1, noshing on yet another bit of Easter egg today…watch and learn from your mother’s mistakes…