False Teeth at 12
One of the things that had helped me make the decision to change school was the fact that Dad’s (school) had an outdoor swimming pool. Which seemed like a desirable thing to a boy of my age. Though the reality was quite different, for the following reasons.
We live in England, the changing rooms are outside, it was unheated, and we had to wear speedos concealing our tiny peckers.
Fortunately, it was regularly freezing cold which kept our aspiring manhood at bay while we admired our breastless female counterparts in their swimsuits. Instead of lockers, you were given a stainless-steel coat hanger with a basket at the bottom to hang your uniform and put your shoes. Looking back, I’m not sure it would be legal to put the youth of today in such uncomfortable conditions.
There was also a climbing frame made from metal in the shape of a horse. I remember one day, Ruben a rather round boy, somewhat resembling Vaughn from Stand by Me was ambling through one of the equestrian limbs and got stuck. The teachers and Patrick the caretaker greased him up right nice but, in the end, they had to contact the fire brigade. I believe they managed to get him out without reaching for the road traffic collision tools.
A year or so after joining the school, I started to take more of an interest in the girls. There seems to be a period in every boy’s life where you don’t like girls and then you do. It happens almost overnight. They’re not there and then they’re everywhere.
But you can’t discuss it, you’re too impressionable and full of embarrassment. I suppose it’s a good job the feelings were never reciprocated as we wouldn’t have known what to do. Usually, girls around the same age do not share the same interest and mostly still think boys smell. Which they probably do. A mix of chlorine and adolescent body odour, delightful.
So, it won’t be surprising to hear, that one summer lunchtime after eating what was likely my packed lunch of sandwich spread sandwiches, Asda farmhouse salt and vinegar crisps, and a chunky, chocolaty orange club washed down with a Capri Sun. I was on the prowl.
By the prowl, I mean aimlessly chasing one of my top 3 love interests around the playground to the tune of one of the spice girls’ numbers no doubt. Until the incident I am about to describe, my experiences of serious pain or frightful injury had been fairly limited. I would probably categorise them thus far as below. It’s worth noting that the ones in bold were all inflicted by the same brother.
- 1. Pushed onto a pile of firewood in our garden where a stick penetrated my jeans about an inch into the fat of my thigh.
- LP was thrown as a Frisbee which hit me in the nose and caused my first nosebleed of memory.
- Dart thrown into my neck. Surprisingly this didn’t really hurt but was quite shocking for all involved, neck injuries get a bad rap because of all the blood.
- Frazzle crisp stuck in my eye; I don’t know why. but it was painful in a salty, bacony way.
- Splinter through the foreskin from sliding down “the observatory” which is a sculpture by Bruce Allen of a staircase in the Forest of Dean.
I seem to remember the painful part of No. 5 had more to do with the removal of the splinter than the sliding part. It involved laying on my parent’s bed, spread-eagled, mother armed with a pair of tweezers. Oh, the shame.
Anyway, as I was running through the playground a girl, Olivia, a couple of years below me must have been running also, careering like a train with no breaks into my path. I say “must have” as I didn’t see her until the collision. One minute I’m on my way, almost close enough to smell my target’s hair and tug endearingly at her jumper, then boom! Olivia hit the damp tarmac, right in the middle of the netball court with a thud, the yellow line of the risen paint splitting her in half. Blood poured from her head, right above the eye.
I then felt intense pain at the front of my mouth. Blood started to fall.
I realise that one of my central incisors is bent backwards but in a somewhat sturdy position. You know things are bad when the adults look horrified, I think one of the teachers may have even gagged. I was ushered through the hall with a piece of blue roll in hand to my dad’s office. He opens the door, lets out a gasp at the site of me through gritted teeth and then lets out his trademark “BLOOOOOODY HELL” in his undisguisable Yorkshire accent.
The teachers who had brought me there scattered. Likely thankful they’d handed over this gruesome incident and had something to talk about for the rest of the day. Until you have an accident like this it’s hard to believe you don’t go to hospital for things like this or at least it was to me.
It didn’t take me long to figure out we had to drive to Dedworth (the rough part of Windsor) to our dentist. 30-40 minutes is a long time when your front tooth is closer to your throat than your lip. I then learned we had to drop Olivia off at home first. My Dad clearly flustered set off straight away like he was a getaway driver. Olivia insisted that we stop while she put her seatbelt on. Though only about 11 at this point I turned to my dad and said, “Is she fucking kidding me!” with my new lisp. He let me get away with that one.
Our Dentist was called Dr Smith, he was young, cool, gentle and drove a convertible Alfa Romeo. But the emergency dentist was Dr Stebbins. Stebbins by name stabbing by nature. 8 injections later, a pair of pliers, a lot of tears, and a gelatine sponge and the tooth was out. Never to return.
I know Olivia and I will never forget each other that’s for sure, we’re forever entwined. Every time she looks in the mirror and I brush my teeth.
A week or so later when it had started to heal, I was fitted with a false one. It was on a plastic plate and was easily removable. As If being a teenager wasn’t going to be difficult enough.