I'm flying to Washington today so I thought I'd leave you with some stunning news – I went to the dentist last week.
So what, you may be thinking, but wait, I have a confession. Unable to to find an NHS dentist I’ve taken the plunge and gone private.
There’s a monthly charge of around £18 plus additional costs for treatment that will no doubt be significantly more expensive than an NHS dentist but having been without a dentist of any kind for several years I did it for peace of mind.
I’ve seen first hand how distressful it is when someone breaks a tooth, develops toothache or, worse, a very painful abscess and doesn’t have a dentist so I thought I’d better do something before I needed treatment myself.
Call it insurance.
The fact that I was no longer registered with an NHS dental practice was largely my fault. I was registered with one but after I ignored one or two requests to have a check-up they removed me from their books.
At least I think that’s what happened. I only found out when I eventually rang to make an appointment only to be told I was no longer registered and they weren’t accepting new patients.
My only complaint is that I didn’t receive a ‘warning’ of my imminent defenestration - which I would certainly have acted upon - because it never occurred to me that if I didn’t have a regular check-up I would be struck off. (When did going to the dentist become compulsory?)
That was three years ago which means that prior to this week I hadn’t been to the dentist for five or six years.
The last time I went was to have my teeth whitened, although it wasn’t a great success.
The discolouration of my teeth has been a gradual process (and somewhat ironic since I don’t smoke which is often cited as one of the leading causes of tooth discolouration) but it reached the point where I was self-conscious about it, especially when photographs were being taken or I was on TV. (I know, first world problem!).
I was given various options, each more expensive than the last. I eventually settled for the cheapest which still cost several hundred pounds.
The dentist made a cast of my upper teeth. This was used to make a plastic mouthpiece and each night, for several months, I had to squeeze bleaching gel into the mouthpiece which I slipped into my mouth just before I went to bed.
The aim - and I’m not breaking any state secrets here - was that the gel would gradually dye my teeth so they looked a little less Dickensian.
I struggled at first with having the mouthpiece in overnight but I got used to it and although it was a slow and rather tortuous process there was a small improvement, I think.
All I know is that one morning I looked in the mirror and thought, ‘OK, still not great but it’ll do.’ And I threw the mouthpiece and gel away.
One tooth however had proved stubbornly resistant to the process and it was the one whose nerve had been removed during root canal surgery several decades earlier.
Anyway the tooth whitening - which was purely cosmetic - was the last time I’d been to the dentist because there was nothing I couldn’t live with, including the odd lost filling.
The other reason I didn’t go will be familiar to many of you. Truth is, I hate going to the dentist because as far as I’m concerned it’s a form of torture.
No visit is pleasant but my worst memories are arguably the removal of four wisdom teeth, at least one of which was impacted, and the root canal surgery.
The latter required several stitches in my upper gum and I was eating through a straw for a week.
Perhaps there’s a generational aspect to this too. When I was growing up in the Sixties and Seventies it was perfectly normal for children to have multiple fillings.
Looking back it's hardly surprising. Breakfast cereals came coated with sugar, colourful sugary sweets filled our pockets and it was the norm - until I was 13 or 14 when my mother weaned me off it - to have two or three teaspoons of sugar in every cup of tea.
In contrast my own children barely had a single filling throughout their childhood.
I’m not sure what their memories of going to the dentist as a small child are like but mine are distinctly mixed.
When I was three I ran down the stairs and into the sitting room of our house in Harlington, west London. I must have tripped because I remember banging my front tooth on the wooden arm of our Ercol sofa.
The nerve must have been damaged because it eventually went grey. Meanwhile I was taken to the dentist who gave me jelly babies.
Far less fun was having a tooth extracted. In the Sixties general anaesthetics were administered not by a needle in the back of the hand but with gas via a heavy, foul-smelling rubber mask, the thought of which makes me feel sick even now.
The tooth abscess that eventually led to root canal surgery first flared up during a two-week visit to America in 1983 when I was 24.
For some reason the pain was worse at night. Lying in bed in the dark I could feel the pressure build up inside the tooth until it was literally throbbing.
For an hour or so it was excruciatingly painful until the pressure, and the pain, gradually subsided.
This went on for the best part of a week but I didn’t dare go to a local dentist because I had no idea whether I had medical insurance and I was worried about the potential cost.
As soon as I got home though I went straight to my dentist and I’ll never forget the relief when he drilled a hole in the infected tooth which immediately relieved the pressure of the infection on the nerve.
A few years later, in my early thirties, I had a problem with my wisdom teeth, the purpose of which has never been explained to me.
Like the appendix, wisdom teeth seem wholly superfluous. Worse - and I speak from experience - they’re a bugger to extract if they get impacted.
Since then I’ve visited the dentist as little as possible which probably explains the state of my teeth although much of the damage was probably done when I was younger.
My new dentist however seems quite fun. My wife, who had already been treated by her, said I would like her and I did.
She doesn’t keep her opinions to herself and she assured me no subject was off limits with one exception - I wasn’t allowed to say anything critical of the Royal Family.
Fortunately I was able to ingratiate myself by telling her about my trip to Balmoral two weeks ago.
Anyway the outcome of my visit was a series of x-rays, the results of which will lead to a programme of treatment designed to restore my teeth to better health.
At some point she will also put a cap on my troublesome discoloured tooth.
Welcome to the dental zone.