When I was little there was almost nothing as exciting as a visit from the Tooth Fairy.

First though, I had to wait for a tooth to start wobbling. Then I’d help it along until it was ready to tug – and before I knew it, feeling both terrified and exhilarated, I was left with a bloody gap of spongy gum and a lone, precious, pearly gnasher in my hand, which only minutes before had been helping me chew.

I’d go to bed, tooth under pillow, willing myself to sleep so the morning would come quicker. Then, as the first rays of sun shone through the window, I’d lift a corner of the pillow, almost breathless with anticipation – and would find a shiny gold coin along with a note from the Tooth Fairy, written in spidery scrawl on the most delicate, pastel tissue paper. My sister Fluffy and I, blissfully ignorant, agreed – it was utterly magical.

Until the day it was finally Fluffy’s turn to swap a tooth for precious gold.

She went to sleep quickly, her tooth safe beneath her pillow. The morning arrived. The sun shone. Her tooth was gone and in it’s place, just as she had hoped, a gold coin and a note.

But something wasn’t quite right.

“Mummy,” she asked, confused, “Why has the tooth fairy written me a note on the back of Daddy’s business card?”