I have always rather fancied having my teeth bleached in a faintly embarrassed, “Only if The Times Magazine really forces me to. Oooh, yes, please,” sort of a way. And so it was that I found myself with my mouth clamped, sporting a visor, staring up the nose of Dr Sunny Luthra. Sunny, who is rather sunny, is top banana of the Capital Dental chain, a whitening empire with outposts across Britain responsible for sprucing up more than 2,000 sets of gnashers per year.

Unlike many of the Johnny-come-latelies in the grin business, Dr Luthra has been in the game a while, and specialises in what he refers to as “the dental facelift”. He also prides himself on leaving in some “character”, that is, yellowness, as teeth will look weirdly Britney given too dazzling a uniformity. Once achieved, a toothlift will stay in place for between three to five years, depending upon the extent to which one partakes of tea, coffee, tobacco, red wine – anything, really, that might give one cause to smile.

Pearly whites are achieved using a bleaching agent and a halogen laser. “It’s a nice treatment,” said the nurse. Fancifully, I felt, as five minutes in, my gums were already stinging like billyo. By the time my half hour was up, I had the sense that I couldn’t keep the solution on a moment longer. My face had gone bizarrely blotchy, and my gums were a curious milky hue, but Sunny guesstimated that my teeth were an exhilarating 11 shades lighter. “I’ve had more painful facials,” I trilled. “Well, see how it goes,” said Sunny darkly, generously proffering his mobile number.

“I want to be whitened,” cried everyone in the office, as I smiled the rectangular, Schwarzeneggeresque leer bequeathed me by the teeth-revealing device. Two hours later, when I was knocking back Neurofen in the manner of a teen suicide, the collective tune subtly changed. “Jonathan Ross’s wife had that done and woke up in the night screaming,” mused one. “Those self-inflicted conditions are always the worst,” frowned another.

Meanwhile, I sat wincing at my desk, convinced that my only future was to end up as one of those cosmetic surgery-gone-wrong features in heat and that The Times would be unlikely to view a tooth-whitening incident as an injury in the cause of duty.

By 6pm I was in full panic mode. What hope a Donny Osmond smile if it was too painful to speak or, indeed, part my lips? It was obvious I was unwell because my hair went into a centre-parting. My teeth felt acutely sensitive and yet curiously wooden and detached from my jaw. Even martinis wouldn’t touch it. I curled up with my face on a hot-water bottle and sank into a leaden, 11-hour slumber.

By morning, the excruciating sensitivity was gone. My teeth looked oddly longer, but also whiter – a sign of youth – and people kept telling me I looked really well, without being able to put their finger on quite why. Several cases of rioja later and it feels as if they are the same shade of daffodil they have always been, but others notice. Would I do it all again? Certainly, but only under general anaesthetic.

Laser whitening costs £399; call 0800 587 7962 or visit www.capitaldental.com

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