IF you missed me from the usual slot on this page last week – oh go on, say you did anyway – it was down to my teeth.
Or rather down to my recently extracted teeth.
Let's raise a toast to absent friends. I miss all my top left molars.
Goodbye liquorice toffees and Riley's toffee rolls, hello marshmallows and jelly babies. Where's the fun in that?
In more recent years, I've lived true to a set of strict dental rules.
I've flossed and I've scrubbed, I've checked in every six months; I even followed my beloved dentist from surgery to surgery and sobbed when she retired.
Then we found she has a sister who is brilliant too and got on her list.
Don't forget the special subscription scheme complete with sonic toothbrush, whitening toothpaste, mouth wash and several packets of miniature bottlebrush gadgets to pick out the nasty poppy seeds.
But there is no God, no divine justice and bad teeth can be a genetic thing.
Those of us who grew up in the 1960s have not our troubles to seek.
One of my earliest memories is of my father taking me to the clinic when I was six.
The sting of disinfectant; the sticky feel of the dentist's chair and raw fear as I looked up the dentist's nose and the black rubber mask came down over my face.
I woke up to a rivulet of blood having had six milk teeth removed. Yes, folks, six.
We were no fans of the dentist.
Back then, there were no injections for fillings – if it hurt, you offered it up to the holy souls.
And I have saved many souls and have a mouthful of fillings to prove it.
Still it was slightly better than the 1940s and 1950s when you lost a tooth for every child and it was deemed preferable to have the lot pulled and get a set of dentures.
My father held on to his teeth for a long time but eventually got the dentures.
When he smiled, he was a dead ringer for Dick Emery's smarmy vicar. It took a while for the dentures to settle and they ached.
He was forever driving up the M2 with the false teeth balanced precariously at the edge of his lips as cars tooted.
Roll on down the years and our fella – now 25 years old – has had just one filling in his whole life.
No, there is no God.
I shall never forget the time I took him to my beloved – now retired – dentist when he was four years old.
He was never one for opening his mouth really wide so the toothbrush didn't get to the back teeth.
"There's a crushed Cheerio on that back tooth," she cried, like she'd just found a penny and lost a pound.
For those of you who don't know, that is a small circular lump of breakfast cereal. Oh dear.
So fast forward to last week, when one side of my mouth finally gave up the ghost.
We'd been nursing along my top left molars for some time. But their time came.
"When are you going to do it?" I asked my dentist, thinking she had done a little preparatory hoking first.
"It's all done, they're out," she said.
I couldn't believe it.
"It's not like I had to swing on them," she said.
But for some reason the next day I developed a headache and things went downhill.
My dentist had a good check and the site was healing nicely. One of the teeth was a large molar with splayed roots, she explained.
The nadir of the week was three hours in casualty with a few rare unmasked types meandering around looking, well, otherworldly.
Now the week of pain is over, various friends have assured me that this is an age thing.
Avoid nuts, advises one friend. I tell her she should never ever go to Accident and Emergency then.
Never, ever, eat seeded bread. It's good for you but not your teeth, says the other.
Everyone has a horrid tooth saga to share.
You hit a milestone and things fall apart... arches fall, teeth crumble, the bags under your eyes could pack enough luggage for a fortnight in Greece. If only you could go there...
Implants are not cheap. In fact at that price, I'm due a diamond bored in the front one.
"Get them, I've seen too many older people who couldn't eat their dinner," says my sister.
So I'm on the list.
It's simple really. They drill a screw into your jaw - yikes what a thought.
Wish me luck.
