The expression of greatest bewilderment however is reserved for when I go down the self-indulgent path of telling my children that before they were around, I had a job (and a life?) - I worked, I earned money, I even wore clothes other than my tracky bums.
By the time the painless bit of the appointment is done, my eyes are streaming, I am a hot sweaty mess, and it is down to sheer luck that I am not covered in my own regurgitated breakfast. My dentist tells me I am not his worst patient. I'm not entirely sure I believe him.
On my wish lists each year, sometimes every six months depending on how things are going, 'Hollywood teeth' always feature along with the ususal suspects: some rock hard abdominals, a book deal, and a Cartier Love bracelet, one must dream.