Just picture me as a six-year old hopping on my bicycle and riding more than five miles to a neighboring town in order to buy a toy drum. Only after the mission was completed did I inform my mother about the new purchase, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for a small boy to ride to another town without asking. Motherly worries belonged to a realm beyond my comprehension. By the way, the mission had long-lasting effects: I still like playing drums.

So I had determination. Which did not, however, equal speed. Except when it came to soccer, I was as slow as molasses in Siberia . I talked slowly, I ate slowly – such as licking (rather than eating) a single chocolate bar for ages and thereby dragging out my Eupicurian pleasure – and dressed slowly. I don’t know how many hours I spent lying on the floor and attempting to throw my underwear and socks on the slippery lampshade underneath the ceiling. It must have been many, because throwing clothes on the lampshade was an art that took a lot of patience. It was also much more entertaining than getting in my gear and proceeding to the order of the day.

Speaking of patience—one of my favorite games as a child was a wooden labyrinth punctured with sixty holes. You were meant

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