In a world where efficiency is professed as the highest virtue and the clock ticks with the impatient regularity of a caffeine-fueled metronome, the raisin bun emerges as an underminer of discipline, a soft, almost sticky anarchic element that only reveals its true power when, sitting at a desk with good intentions in mind and a to-do list hanging over the brain like a modern torture device, one suddenly notices that all thought processes – no matter how lofty or productive – have given way to a single impulse: do I want to eat that raisin bun or slowly smell it like an idiot who thinks he has self-control?