The battle plan had been simple. An innocent meal with my sister, lubricated by some Tiger beer and sweet chilli sauce but lurking somewhere in the pak choi the enemy lay quietly until the last possible moment before revealing itself.
The first strike led to an "ouch, oh bugger!", but like all adrenalin filled battles the peanut damage was not revealed until the next day. Over a morning cup of tea the molar shed its little gold helmut and exposed the devastation underneath.
The voice on the end of a frantic phone call said that help was not at hand until Tuesday morning but the little molar was not going quietly.
After the discovery that the toothfairy was held up in Bratislava and that no strong painkiller, whiskey or illegal substance was going to put the wounded tooth out of its misery, a string and a door knob were considered.
"You have fractured the root, it must come out. That will be £54, do you have a credit card?" the Evil Dentist smirked.
The little molar battled against the pliers for half an hour - how brave it was! The empty grave is still reminding me of its struggle.
RIP little toothypeg - you served me well but would you please have a word with your neighbours and inform them that there is no need to put up quite such a struggle as modern medicine, and a loan big enough for a new house, will allow the Evil Dentist to fill the graveyard with a fake tooth that will last until 3010!