The Tooth Fairy envies her friend Santa and what she regards as his part-time job.
True, he does deliver toys to every child on earth, all in one night, but it is just on that one night.
Yes, he does have to make the toys during the rest of the year, but he has elves to do that, so for all of that time he’s basically a figurehead, like a Government Minister turning up at the opening of a hospital he had nothing to do with building.
The Tooth Fairy, however, works 365 days a year, or rather 365 nights. Every night she visits the bedrooms of children, burrows her way into a suffocatingly small gap beneath their pillow, grabs a tooth often half the size of herself and wriggles outs backwards, dragging it behind her.
On good nights she merely gets hot and dishevelled. On not-so-good ones she gets dribbled on as she is backing up.
And on top of all of this she has to pay the child.
Why would she do this? How can she afford it? What does she do with the teeth?
The answers to these questions lie in her second job – her day job, if you like.
You may have noticed that whenever skulls are unearthed they always have a perfect set of teeth, as if early dentistry was far better than in it is today.
This is because the Tooth Fairy replaces any missing teeth, from the vast stock at her disposal.
And she is well paid for this, and has been by various groups since the beginning of time. The skull has long provoked deep-rooted fear amongst us humans, fear that might not be quite as strong if it had gaps in its mouth, making it look more like a string of socks on a washing-line.
So she was paid by Neanderthal tribal elders wearing necklaces of skulls, who wanted to give the impression that the skull-owners had met their ends grinning in terror at the tribal elder’s powers, and not, as had usually happened, that they had been stamped on by mammoths.
Pirates throughout history financed her, reckoning that the skull-and-crossbones would instil less fear if the skull looked as if it had been punched in the mouth.
Shakespeare paid for a dentally-intact Yorick, feeling that the sentence “alas, poor Yorick, he was a terrible man for the biscuits” did not have the correct dramatic tone.
Years later Spielberg paid for literal mouthfuls for the skulls that would fall on top of Indiana Jones in booby-trapped tunnels, grinning madly as if at the nature of their own demise.
Tattooist Organisations contribute to her fund today, since no-one would get a tattoo of something that looks as if it’s eaten too many doughnuts.
Dunkin’ Donuts also contribute, possibly out of guilt.
She has the perfect self-perpetuating business, in which an endless supply of terrifying skulls populate scary movies at which children consume coke and popcorn, leading to an endless supply of teeth.
And once a year her friend Santa turns up, distributing those peculiar walking-stick-shaped candies that are never seen at any other time of the year.
It’s his Christmas present to her.