It all starts with a slice of toast. Not as inspiring as an apple falling from a tree, but this piece of toast was stuck to an empty white wall of the kitchen like a conceptual art piece. It began sliding down ever so slightly as the butter started to lose its grip on the surface.

Something had happened, a deafening, tense, silence rang through the still air. A prickle of emotion ran over my skin. A dimming hint of anger, a surging taste of shame.

I had broken. I had lost control. I couldn’t contain my anger. But instead of some cliché punch of the wall, or worse still, I had grabbed an innocent piece of crusty sourdough toast and launched it at the wall. There it hung in suspense, in shock, in disbelief.