In the three months or so of containment here, there has been much hair, and some teeth, activity. The third little girl now has a neat bob, courtesy of the skills of my daughter-in-law. Despite the Welsh accent, she somehow looks very French.
The guy who lives on the farm with us, (and is helping the husband in the loo block project), has a painful broken tooth. He’s waiting for a call-back to discuss when he’ll be able to have a socially distanced dental appointment to sort out the problem. The six-year-old with a new haircut has lost two teeth in lockdown. The going rate, I’m told, is £2 for the first one and £1 for each subsequent loss.
I was becoming rather concerned. For three nights the smalls reported that there was a tooth fairy no-show. Was there a late furlough amongst the community of fairy folk? Were they working at reduced capacity and thus taking longer to respond to new under-pillow-packages? Was each sprite overstretched, having to fly over a much wider territory?
Or even, was the lack of entertainment and diversions for children of a wobbly tooth vintage, causing excessive wiggling, a swifter shedding of milk teeth and a greater workload for the already stretched miniature winged creatures? These possibilities and more popped into my head.
Finally, on the fourth night, and without apology, explanation or sicknote, the West Wales designated tooth fairy put in an appearance. Everyday life was visited by magic. All, once more, was well.