My version of living dangerously is going out without my epi-pens.

Picture, if you will, a restaurant. It’s a normal day – diners are dining, waiting staff are waiting, and everyone’s having a grand old time.

Then a young woman with pink hair enters. The nearest waiter approaches her, and she asks them for a table.

“Sure thing! Any allergies?”

“Actually, yes,” she responds.

The waiter’s face drains of colour. In their head, blue lights and sirens begin to flash and scream. Their eyes go distant, and a look of horror passes across their face. Just for a second, ...