One hundred and seventeen steps from my front door, on an overcast day in early July, my feet come to an abrupt stop, and the knees above sink into the grass below. The neighbours’ house with its elegant portico evaporates from my peripheral vision and the hedge cutter’s convulsive droning recedes from my auditory consciousness. Instinctively, my right hand reaches out and my head juts forward in familiar fashion. It’s not the first time this has happened this week and nor will it be the last. Yet, I am strangely calm. This is not the onset of a shutdown that paralyses my body, sets speech on mute and eliminates rational thought. It is a rare moment of inner peace allowing the usual whirl of thoughts to settle like flakes in a snow globe.