I had always wanted to become a research psychologist, something called a degree and ethics got it the way. I could never be bothered with the former. I could never afford the latter.

But cooks require neither of those things. So the kitchen became my home. I grew accustomed to it’s automatic smells, and small added touches by staff. A mini greenhouse of herbs, Pinterest esk drying garlic, and my favourite, the small encouraging posters that boasted love and laughter.

The cliché checkered black and white floors had become the bed my feet slept in, the stainless steel sinks the bath my hands soaked in, the fatty food the life my lungs breathed in. But I had a dream.

It stemmed from a misunderstanding, or more like a lack of understanding, as if I had never been given the how to act human book as a child. What did that make me? Inhuman? In my eyes merely curious.

So as any scientist with a question and a hypothesis, I decided I would need some results. And like that scientist I had the perfect job to do so.