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I wind up the little blue clockwork robot and place him precariously on the edge of the bookshelf just to watch him fall, arms flailing wildly, into the green pile of toy soldiers. Giggling, I set the green pyramid up again and repeat the suicide jump, and the resulting crash makes me laugh harder.

I find my little red and yellow ball, iridescently glowing in the afternoon sunlight that melts through my bedroom window, and hurl it at the pile of books on my desk. Ellis, Conrad and Williams go soaring through the air, ploughing through piles of paperwork. I think I see Orwell, a rogue missile, send my lamp flying. It smashes into the wall and tiny razors of glass spread themselves around my floor. I consider this a success.

My little green and red train engine, meticulously and painstakingly maintained, snaps in half with a joyful cracking sound. Shards of plastic dig into my hands.

I look at my huge tub of LEGO. Its indestructibility mocks me.

I pick up my little green teddy bear from his home on my pillow. Unflinchingly, I grab him in two hands and pull. His head detaches from his body, leaving woolen entrails across my bed. The head bounces off my window and knocks over the glass of water on my bedside drawers. The body ends up befriending my goldfish.

I sit, hungry and wet, on the rug in the middle of my room. My hands and legs bleed. I realise, as my belly growls at the smell of the missed dinner, what an idiot I've been.