MY husband has good teeth. I have poor teeth. Whenever we find ourselves making personal attacks on each other's physical failing, he knows he only has to bare his Hampsteads to shut me up. He is 32 and doesn't have a filling in his head. I, meanwhile, have enough metal on my gums to repair the West Pier.

I wouldn't mind so much if he were the sort who'd led a sugar-free life and gnawed raw beetroot for dinner. But he's not. He eats more cakes and chocolate than you could shake a stick of rock at and regularly uses Coca-Cola as a mouthwash.

Last month I was hoping this gaping inequality would narrow. We both registered with a new dentist, which meant my husband was going to have his teeth looked at for the first time in eight years. Prior to our appointment, I'd done my own inspection of his sturdy gnashers and was convinced I could see the beginning of a few cavities.

"Yes," I'd said, putting down the torch and Biro. "Three or four... at least. But that's to be expected. You can't escape it forever, you know. It's about time you experienced the terror of the dentist's drill and the smell of burning enamel, not to mention numb lips that make you dribble your tea."

This may sound rather harsh and it's certainly not something I'd wish on all those with perfect teeth; only those who make a big thing of it and make the rest of us feel inadequate. Besides, I thought I could afford to sound a little smug. The chances were that my dental scaffolding was still pretty secure since my last visit six months ago. Any further work would be purely cosmetic, I told myself.

Down at the surgery my husband was seen first. As he came out I was called in so we had no time to do anything other than exchange glances. I thought he looked worried, but that may just have been wishful thinking on my behalf.

While prodding his way around my mouth, the dentist informed me that I needed three fillings replaced. Three! Oh, the shame of it. But then, having a baby robs you of calcium, so I've heard. So it wasn't because I'd forgotten to floss or had neglected to buy a new toothbrush before it resembled an albino hedgehog. I could live with three fillings - just as long as my husband required extensive treatment too. I was right, wasn't I!

"No," said the dentist, still poking a silvery molar, "his teeth are pretty good. All they need is a good clean."

"Ugger," I said.

Tomorrow, while my husband is eating neat honey, I'll be dribbling my tea yet again.

OUR resolve not to swear in front of our 13-month-old daughter Eve vanished on Saturday while looking for a locker that worked at Hove's King Alfred Leisure Centre.

We tried six of them before finding one that didn't eject your 10p piece before you could close the door and that willingly released the wrist strap with the key.

For the preservation of innocence, could the management please sort out the lockers soon? Thanks.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.