Something has unsettled me since we moved to London. It's not so much the fact that my nine-year-old now felt-tips tattoos on her forearm, or the inventive things that local youths can do with a steak knife. It's not even the pungent knotted sacs that swing from the lower branches in our local park.
No, the thing that has most unsettled me is the unreliability of London tooth fairies. In our provincial days, when teeth first started tumbling, you could count on a quid beneath the pillow. The blood, the gore, the anguish were washed away by the certainty that fairy gold could be translated into a bumper bag of Haribos next morning.
Perhaps two recent house-moves and the sheer number of teeth have overwhelmed the magical benefactors. For now my children place their shed pearls doubtfully amid the bedding. 'Of course, the fairy will come!' I assure them with a conviction I do not feel. Last time I placed a Post-it on my laptop, reminding the fairy to drop by, but she was evidently held up on the North Circular for the reward didn't appear until late next morning when tears tugged her lazy conscience.
Tonight my son suspensefully mummifies his molar in a wad of loo paper and tucks it under his pillow. 'What if the fairy forgets again?' he asks. 'She won't!' I reply resolutely. And she doesn't. I leave a pile of coins on the top stair to jog her memory and the following morning £1 has replaced the damp package. But my son does not seem celebratory. I ask him what's amiss. 'The fairy leaves Ruby and Dylan £5 when they lose a tooth,' he mutters.
Damn these city tooth fairies! They didn't remind me of London weighting.
Click here to see more Funnee posts at Actually Mummy's plus a three-year-old's perception of the tooth fairy