The story of my teeth (or why I can't eat solid food)

For almost as long as I can remember, I've had problems with my teeth.

Not like cavities-and-fillings problems, although I have had my share of those as well, but problems more like my teeth didn't meet and my bottom jaw slightly overlapped my top.

I can remember various hospital visits and x-ray appointments, but no action ever being taken. Maybe I was asked at the time, and said no to surgery, or if they just said let's wait and see. I don't remember, but neither would surprise me.

The option of doing something about it didn't come up again until a few years ago. It was a winter's night in the city of Leicester, some chav scum beat me senseless and fractured my jaw, and what followed was weeks of hospital appointments and more x-rays.

Only this time moulds were taken of my jaw, and the puzzled doctors tried to work out how it was meant to fit together and how it got so displaced in such a little scuffle. The scuffle was a good size, I insisted; a perfectly normal, averaged-sized scuffle. I explained how weirdly my jaw was meant to fit together -- that is it was not "right" to start with.

I ended up with some minor orthodontic work, metal brackets on my teeth with elastic bands attached to try and right the displacement caused by the punch, and the fracture. It didn't work. Then a more serious option was presented: I could have surgery. I would go under general anaesthetic, they would cut my face open, put metal plates in it, then wire my jaw shut. But in the end all would be as it should be again.

I weighed up my options and decided since I was trying to "make it" as a journalist, I couldn't afford to have my jaw wired shut. So I politely declined, and carried on my life with a wonky jaw and an inability to eat foods that would slip through the gap between my top and bottom jaw.

Again, a few years on and during a routine dentist appointment, I'm asked if the condition ever bothers me. "Sure it does," I tell them "But I'm used to it now, and mostly I don't think about it". The dentist tells me how I can be referred to a specialist in London, and they will run through my options. "I can't afford that" I say, but thank God for the National Health Service: I wouldn't have to afford anything.

What followed was again more appointments, more x-rays, more impressions and moulds. Somewhere along the way, even though I wasn't supposed to, I felt just a tiny bit pressured to agree to surgery -- like I would have wasted everyone's time if I decided against it. But really the decision was made for me one day when I was struggling to eat a simple sandwich, so I agreed to surgery.

The surgery will be in a year, and until then I have braces on my teeth like a teenager. It's been a week now since they were fitted, the pain and dull ache of them has subsided but I still have a sharp bits of wire ripping the inside of my cheeks, and still struggle to eat. And to think, this was meant to make eating easier for me... I just have to tell myself, by Christmas in 2011 the surgery will be done and the braces will be off. In 18 months it will all be over.