My dare devil brother was 10 years old, I was 11. He urged me to get on the back of his bike so that he could ferry me down Bradford Road and swore that I would be OK because he was so good at cycling now.
Foolishly, I believed him and got on the back and held on to his skinny ribs. “Please don’t go fast, will you?”. “No, promise.” Liar! He lifted his bottom off the seat and went flying down the road, I was petrified and began to shake him from side to side begging him to stop and let me off, then, screach, bike went left, we went right and his teeth went in to the tarmac.
When we got up, I looked at him and burst into tears, two stumps of teeth and blood everywhere. If that wasn’t bad enough, I was more scared of what my mother would say as she was obsessed with teeth! Coming from a time when people used to whip them out and get falsies because they looked better and were less bother than the real ones, she was so proud of hers and ours being so straight and our own.
She never forgave me for him losing his two main ones, even though I always maintained it was his own fault for showing off on his bike! In her 70’s people used to say to her “Your teeth are lovely, where did you get them?”. My brother on the other hand, has to explain where his own teeth went and why! Guilty as charged.