Friday, 19 June 2009


I've been seeing rather a lot of a dashing young doctor in London for the last 2 years. Sadly for no better reason that he is my youngest son's orthodontist. Actually I'm not that fond of him at all ( the man that is not my son of whom I'm very fond ) , although he seems like a nice enough bloke. I always get a telling off for not making sure that my son wear his brace 24/7. As I can't actually be with my son 24/7 on school days , I have to rely on his sense of responsibility for keeping it in , which at 9 years is a tall order.

Two years ago my husband dispatched my son down one of those wretched flume rides at a swimming pool. He emerged seconds later from the other end minus his brand new front tooth. The water turned red and the lifeguard passed out. My husband phoned me to say everything was alright, which turned out to be a complete lie as he then went on to ask what he should do having told me what had happened. Ever since then we have paid monthly visits to the Eastman Dental Hospital in London for extensive remedial treatment. Although this is free in terms of it being NHS , it still costs an arm and a leg getting there and back.

Today we're going to take in the Bank of England Museum en route where, apparently, you can pick up a real gold bar to see how much it weighs. If it doesn't weigh that much I plan to do a runner with said gold bar to fund our mounting expenses in which case you may read about it in tomorrow's papers.

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