Meet Robert and Rhonda, the Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee of Northern Ireland dentistry (although they are married to other people, and neither are married to Paul Daniels or Debbie McGee).
These fine individuals began looking after my teeth when I was in my early teens. I'm not a normal patient, you see (I like to think of myself as "special"). A blood problem diagnosed whilst I was still in the womb led to the administration of a drug which, my mother was warned, would mean dental problems in later years. And the prophecy came true.
An avalanche of abscesses (poetic pus, if you will) led to the weakening of my gums, countless root fillings, lots of crowns and, in time, some extractions. And Robert, ably assisted by dental nurse Rhonda, was responsible for almost all of the heavy lifting.
Indeed, I understand that I retain the record for the most number of appointments in Robert's surgery in a single calendar year - 26. In time I might even be worthy of a blue plaque.
After leaving university, I moved to Belfast, then London and finally Leeds and had to seek treatment at other practices. But the quality of care was nothing close to what I had in Coleraine. It was conveyor belt dentistry, but I put up with it, constantly reminded by others that I was lucky to have an NHS dentist at all (don't get me started).
However, just over three months ago, the game changed. I was told by my dentist in Leeds that the root of my front left tooth had fractured and the whole lot would have to come out to be replaced by a denture. The consequences of this were not explained in any way, and no alternatives were offered. So, after having impressions done, I turned up, had my front tooth yanked - and the dentist presented me with this.
Lovely, isn't it?
If you haven't seen one of these - and I hadn't - you will note the pink piece of material. That was to sit on the roof of my mouth. And therein lay the problem.
I am the first to acknowledge that I can sometimes be difficult to understand, particularly when I'm off on one. And the insertion of a lump of plastic was not going to help matters.
I left the surgery in shock and arrived home in tatters. A mixture of sorrow, anger and panic. The next couple of weeks did not improve my mood, nor my ability to talk. And then I went back to Northern Ireland for the North West 200 motorbike races.
Shortly after arriving home, my mum advised that my stepdad Derek had spoken to Rhonda - who lives across the road - and Robert would be very happy to see me the following day. A quick fire glance enabled both he and Rhonda to advise that a bridge - at a very reasonable cost - was the solution and the denture could go, although I would have to wait three months for the wound to heal. I was sent off to make two appointments in August.
The new bridge was cemented in on Monday afternoon and, at 5pm, my former denture hosted its own farewell party in the Railway Arms.
To say I am grateful to Robert and Rhonda is a huge understatement, but I'll say it anyway. I also look forward to travelling back to Coleraine for more treatment in the months ahead.
I love it when a story has a happy ending - and I'm not too embarrassed to raise a smile.
