I haven't been to my NHS dentist since before lockdown, because I used to be a shark - Gaby Soutar

Until June 15, it’s National Smile Month, which is a campaign to improve the nation’s oral health. There is even have a dental helpline. Maybe I should try ringing it? At the moment, I’m mainly doing closed mouth grins and talking like a ventriloquist with no puppet.

Couple laughing Pic: Adobe

There’s nothing structurally wrong with my teeth. It’s just that, after too many gottles o’ geer and daily espressos, they now perfectly match the shade Tallow on the Farrow & Ball paint chart.

The pearly whites are in dire need of the gruesome bloody torture that is a scale and polish. Just the thought of the probing scritch-scratch of that metal tool along my sensitive gum line makes my legs go wobbly.

I haven’t been to the dentist for that, or a general check-up, since before lockdown. I’m not the only one, as recent figures showed that nearly half of all registered NHS dental patients in Scotland hadn’t been in two years and 10 per cent had dodged their regular appointment for a decade.

Chattering wind-up teeth Pic: Adobe

My delaying tactics have been Oscar-worthy.

For a while, I convinced myself that my surgery had gone fully private, but it turns out that they haven’t. I’m pretty sure I’ll still be on their books.

After marking that excuse off my chart, I managed to psych myself up to email them, only to get an annoying automatic reply telling me to phone.

I just can’t bring myself to dial that number. It feels like voluntarily calling an executioner and asking them to book you in for a quick guillotine.

I feel that I am totally justified in my relatively mild phobia.

That’s because I started life as a shark. Well, that’s an exaggeration, as they have five rows of teeth, all the better for razoring your leg off while you’re innocently surfing.

I had three, so I’m more of a benign kangaroo, elephant or manatee, though I do prefer to imagine myself with infinite teeth like the sandworm in Dune.

There was one full set of the milk gnashers, and two adult rows secreted in my upper gums.

Until Googling it, I didn’t realise how unusual hyperdontia is. It occurs in 0.1 per cent to 3.8 per cent of the population, and most of the cases are male. It’s also usually just one or two teeth, like spare incisors, rather than a whole fang party going on in your gob. I think I had about 13 unwanted extras.

If I had been born earlier, I could’ve made my living at a Victorian travelling circus.

They’d queue up and pay half a crown to watch Gaby gnaw a greengage through a letterbox. I would’ve married the strong man and had lots of muscular kangaroo-faced babies.

If we’d been talking about life in the 16th century, I’d have been the ideal candidate to be a witch, with my widow’s peak and snaggle teeth. And I would’ve been easily captured for convenient dooking or burning at the stake, since I’m also extremely myopic. I’d have fallen into a ditch while trying to escape in the night. It would only have been easier to have a sorcerer delivered straight to the door by Harpies (the underworld equivalent of Hermes).

Again, I’ve been a great loss to that cause.

As it stood, all my spares were removed and I pushed the tooth fairy into bankruptcy. (Interestingly, in other countries, like Mexico and France, they have a tooth mouse, rather than a fairy, though I think it still deals in hard cash, rather than queso fresco or brie).

There was an operation at The Royal Hospital for Sick Children’s in Edinburgh to take a budding bunch out of my gums, which left me with giant scabs that took forever to heal. I had another procedure, to remove skin, so the adult teeth would be encouraged to pop out in the appropriate places. Then some of my milk teeth were yanked out at the dentist later on.

He was a horrible man, who told me to shut up when I cried at some of the gnarlier moments of extraction. There was no lollipop or sticker.

That was before parents were allowed in the room, so he could unleash his child-hating tendencies, as people seemed to do quite regularly back then.

After all that, I still had to endure the indignity of braces in my teens, though at least they weren’t the train track ones. It wasn’t all bad, as there was fun to be had. I tortured my closest friends by popping them out after lunch in the school canteen, because I was a repugnant beast.

To this day, my top front teeth remain rebelliously squint, and I used to self-consciously cover my mouth when talking or laughing. I don’t care about that anymore.

Despite the condensed milk shade, I have strong chompers. My grandparents and parents kept most of theirs into old age, so the genes are excellent.

Unless there are new ones waiting to be discovered, I only have one cavity, with an old-school mercury filling. Things could have been so much worse, and it’s modern dentistry that I have to thank. (Not the horrible dentist, he can get in the sea).

When I do get round to booking that check-up (I will, now that I’ve shared my shame) and they nag me about flossing, I’ll tell them that it’s the least of my worries.

After all, I was very nearly a manatee.