Ordinary people have ordinary senses. Not that I am judgemental of them, don’t get me wrong. When it comes to taste, they can, of course, feel salt, or sugar, or fat. Some can even distinguish white pepper from black. But can they see the beauty in a fresh Sicilian tuna carpaccio, subtle and delicate, like Monet’s water lilies? Can they read the story behind a Lancashire hotpot, which sings of a tired housemaid who cooked it? Or maybe, just maybe, they can hear the crescendo of a zesty key lime cake, progressing with every bite you take? Thought as much. But it’s okay; this can be both a blessing and a curse like it was in my case for so long. I have been too sensitive for as long as I can remember. I could cry at the rocky road ice cream in the park or be so ecstatic at Grandma’s roast turkey that my parents just couldn’t put me to sleep. But as I’m sitting at the table in one of the most renowned Michelin restaurants in the world, I realise that what I feel doesn’t seem like this anymore. The magic is slowly fading, as is my taste. I can still feel the smell of the duck consommé that’s tickling my nostrils with a mix of parsnip, garlic and coriander, but it makes my heart blacken with dread, and I can feel my rapid breathing. I can no longer feel the enchantment of my taste, which grows dimmer and dimmer with every bite I take. Suddenly, I can’t hear the white noise of people talking in the background; can’t see my surroundings. I’m three and back at my first-ever dinner - Mother has prepared Shepherd’s pie tonight, and I’m allowed to try it. I take a bite, and suddenly, heaven’s gate opens up, I yell and yell, and my parents can’t figure out what’s wrong; their faces pale with fright. Will I ever again feel that kind of pure joy? Will I ever be able to shed a tear trying something new? I close my eyes. I don’t know, but I hope, oh, how I hope that this will pass. And if not... I guess it could be the end of me.