MAUREEN ON MONDAY: That dreaded dentist's chair is looming.

I HAVE broken a tooth. 'So what' I hear you say. So I can think of nothing else, that's what.

Alright, to most people a bit of tooth the size of half a Rice Krispie disappearing to goodness knows where and leaving a filling precariously exposed may mean nothing more than the prospect of a comfy 20 minutes gazing into a dentist's eyes.

To me ... well let's just say I would rather give birth to a 12lb baby without painkillers than have a tooth filled. True. I would.

I know I'm silly, a girlie wimp and should act my age (whatever that may mean - I've one friend who goes to tap dancing classes twice a week and another goes as often to the doctor).

I do not need to be told that hospitals, hospices and homes in every town hold brave souls bearing pain so awful it's hard to imagine how they can smile. They do and I am aware.

I'm still scared witless about having to go to the dentist.

I always took the children for regular check ups - like every good mum should, yet secretly thought, why traipse along to the dentist every six months to have teeth poked with a sharp thing making holes that then have to be drilled, filled and ..aaaaaaargh!

I've gone all cold just writing the words.

Husband has no patience with me. He's more afraid of pricking his finger than having teeth prodded and the sons actually enjoy lying back holding hands with a soft and gentle dental nurse.

Daughter has sadly inherited my fear. We like to say it's a burden girls have to bear because we have a more highly tuned imagination than chaps. They can only concentrate on the moment; we're able to see ahead to when the drill hits the nerve and we wrench the arms off the chair. Not kidding, a dentist in my past once stopped drilling to ask me if I'd mind not pulling the arm rests off or he'd have to charge me double.

I do have an excuse. The first filling I had as a child was totally anaesthetic free - the memory is VIVID.

Years later a clumsy driller nicked my numb tongue. Didn't hurt so I was ever so brave, but had to live on boring soup and poached haddock for a fortnight until it healed.

A lovely lady dentist replaced my last filling (was it three or five years ago?) and I was so impressed by the absolute painlessness of the experienced I vowed to go back every six months for the rest of my life. Now I wish I had.

I tell you, I am sitting here with all 26 and a half teeth in my mouth aching. I am ashamed to confess there is nothing in my future except a visit to the dentist.

It looms like a trip to the gallows. And when is this ordeal to take place? Not sure - I'm still plucking up courage to make the appointment.

Last instalment of mouse saga. Mrs Widowed fieldmouse (remember Lucy cat murdered her husband) has died a natural death behind my cooker. Could have been due to a broken heart or possibly a hot flush when I had a casserole in the oven for four hours.

However, reader Joan has very kindly advised me to set future mousetraps with a little pile of flour. Yes, I was surprised too but it's obvious when you think about it. Mouse can't nibble flour so leaps up and down with frustration ...WHAM.

Clever or what? Thanks Joan.