I think there’s a point in every toothpaste tube’s life where it stops being a simple bathroom or dental product and becomes a test of what I can only say is human determination.

And upper body strength.

At the start, everyone is fine. Hunky dory. Brand new tube. Full of promise and minty freshness. You give it a gentle squeeze, slightly more than a tap, but definitely less than a press.

And comes a perfect ribbon of toothpaste. It’s almost ad perfect – the right shape, the right amount. Almost edible. In fact, almost looks like one of those MasterChef-style desserts. Life is good. The tube and you, perfectly in sync, like partners doing a dance.

Forward a couple of weeks, and you’re in a committed relationship with this tube. It’s still pretty good but you have the moments. You know it. More importantly, the tube knows it. Things are getting difficult.

You’re squeezing a bit harder now. Rolling it from the bottom like they taught you in some imaginary toothpaste management class. Still works, but you can feel the resistance building. The relationship is definitely being tested.

Then comes the final week. The endgame.

You’re now performing what can only be described as aggressive tube massage, rolling it so tight it looks like you’re trying to strangle it. You’ve deployed the edge of the bathroom counter as leverage. You’re using both hands. Some of you may even find a trusted ally in this war – usually a rolling pin.

For an onlooker, it just looks silly. You need to let it go, they say. It’s over. But you know it in your gut. There’s definitely still toothpaste in there – you can feel it – but the tube has decided to make you work for every last bit.

And there’s always that moment where you think “right, that’s it, it’s definitely empty now” and you chuck it to the side.

Then the next morning, in a moment of desperation, you fish it out and manage to squeeze out enough for one more brush.

How?

Where was it hiding?

Was it just testing your commitment?

The packaging has split. The tube’s accordion-folded to within an inch of its life. Your bathroom counter has toothpaste marks from where you’ve been using it as a medieval torture device. It’s not about the toothpaste anymore. It’s a war of wills. And you’re on the winning side.

So what if the shape of the toothpaste tube is now permanently imprinted on your palm like some sort of bathroom battle scar.

So what if your partner’s looking at you with genuine concern.

So what if you’ve got a perfectly good new tube sitting right there in the cupboard, mocking you with its fullness.

The new tube can wait.

You’ve got principles.

Weird, slightly unhinged principles about paste extraction, but principles nonetheless.