This time last week, I had a front left crown. By mid-morning on Tuesday it was gone - filled by a denture. And I cannot tell you how much I hate it.
I first had the tooth crowned when I was in my early teens. Since then, I've probably had a dozen of them.
I once swallowed one whilst devouring a fish supper.
I blew one out halfway through a school 100 metre race (which I managed to win, before going back up my lane on my hands and knees in an attempt to find it).
I shattered one biting a crisp on a train somewhere between Atlanta and New Orleans.
One fell out in the canteen at Castle Buildings, Stormont in the early hours of 10 April 1998 as the negotiations on the Good Friday Agreement were reaching their end. I can still hear the sound as it bounced off my plate and flew under the table to the bemusement of several members of the Ulster Unionist Talks Team.
I broke one at a caravan park in East Yorkshire, enabling me to swiftly blend in with an array of other toothless wonders.
And, most recently, I bent one on a chocolate rice crispie bun.
All of these dramas collectively led to the fracturing of the root of my tooth, and that was that according to my dentist who said that extraction was the only way to go.
I was quite relaxed about all of this for a very simple reason: I had no idea how dreadful it would be to have a denture.
I thought she would just bang something in there and that would be that. But no.
The reality is that I now have this plate thing covering much of the roof of my mouth. It moves about, it's very uncomfortable to eat, I have to wash it after every meal, it comes out at night and, worst of all, it's very difficult to talk.
I spent much of the weekend researching what other options might be available and it seems that an implant is by far the best solution. But sadly I don't have a spare £2,500, so that's not going to happen.
So the only choice is to dust myself down, kick myself up the a*se (not an easy feat) and get on with things.
As luck would have it, I'm flying back home to Northern Ireland on Wednesday where an array of family and friends will have a golden opportunity to rip the dung out of me for four whole days.
Ah yes, good old "Ulster Therapy" always puts everything in perspective. And I could do with a laugh.
