I walked on stage with a paper bag. Silence. I slowly pulled out a bucket and let it drop from the stage. The front row flinched. I unwrapped foil that rustled through the quiet hall. Nervous laughter. Silence again.
I held up a 2.5 kg cabbage head and said quietly:
"I wonder how parents do it – in some parts of the world, when they leave a child like me in the forest to die. Do they wrap them in their best towel? Or do they do it like this?"
I dropped the cabbage into the bucket. The sound filled the hall. Dead silence.
Then I picked up the bucket, carried it to the side of the stage, walked back and said: "Sorry – you probably want the lighter version."
And I began the real story. The boy who ran at age four and wanted to climb mountains.
A year later, the children at that conference — who could have chosen any pop star — chose me as their artist. Because every time they walk past a cabbage in a grocery store, they remember.