As a child I wanted to be a dentist. Most children dream big and showy: astronaut, film star, dinosaur breeder. Not me. I was content to dream of a future where I’d get to wear a white coat and operate a mechanised chair.

When I was eight, teeth were to me what unicorns and fairies are to regular little girls.

I’d read books in the library at lunchtime about teeth. I’d ask strangers if they’d open their mouth so I could see their fillings. And I’d play dentist on my parents, using a teaspoon as a pretend dental tool.

I’m not sure why I was so enamoured with teeth. I think it might be because at around this age, I ate a toffee and while chewing it, it plucked one of my teeth straight from my gums. Apart from being allowed to watch Man ‘O Man, this was now the most exciting thing that had happened to me to date.

Around this time, late one night I sneaked into the bathroom and by torchlight removed my granddad’s false teeth from the glass filled with water that he kept them in. I washed them off under copious amounts of hot water and forced both sets of his false teeth into my pint-sized mouth.

I stared in the mirror for some time, giggling like a loon at myself. Eventually this hilarious joke for one grew tiresome.

I yanked the false teeth from my mouth, washed them in the basin with hot water, and put them back in the glass where I found them.

I didn’t get caught. This was my secret. I kept it inside for roughly three days, when I decided, apropos of nothing, to tell Dad that it looks really weird when you have four sets of teeth in your mouth. He asked how I managed to get four sets of teeth in my mouth and I blurted out what I’d done.

As I told him all the sordid details of Teethgate, I could see on his face that he was disgusted, fascinated and oddly proud that I’d been brave enough to put someone else’s false teeth in my mouth.

To this day he still tells this story to my new boyfriends, and any overly friendly cashiers who’ll listen.

That was and still is the weirdest thing that I’ve ever done.

I’ve been under the influence of alcohol in foreign countries and nothing I’ve ever done has come close to being as weird and disturbing as putting my granddad’s false teeth in my mouth.

I think mother called it my Wednesday Addams phase.

I’m not a dentist. I will never be a dentist because I’m terrible at maths.

In high school, I used to do remedial maths with Sister Gillian. We would adjourn to a private room where I would try to keep her talking about being a nun, God, Noah, Sister Act – anything to stall her.

Sister Gillian thought I was a nice girl who was keen to become a nun. “You know, nuns need maths too, Melinda.” Argh.

I know it’s weird but I kind of enjoy going to the dentist. I like most of the experience except for this question: “Do you floss?”

I feel like saying, “You’re the one with a bird’s-eye view of my back molars, what do you think?”

Those teeth get as much attention as a middle child on Christmas.

As originally published in The Courier Mail

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