When I was eight, my sister jumped me so high on a seesaw that I went right over the handlebar still clinging on as tight as I could. My blood made the chipped red paint look fresh and I wonder if things would have worked out better if I had just let go. Sometimes my fingers are so smooth that I can’t even keep hold of my other hand. I think life is a helium filled balloon – you either hold on to it until it shrivels and shrinks out of shape, pop it and turn heads, or unclasp your hand and watch it fly. I’ve learnt to tie my anger to the ankles of pigeons and watch them flap away with it. To send my sadness with the rocks I skim across water and let it skip and jump somewhere far away. To wrap up my self-pity, self-criticism, lost loves, lost dreams, lick and stick the stamp and post them across the world. Now I smile when I see a sky full of balloons because although there may be a hundred children crying there are also a hundred palms open, empty. Give me a minute to work out what’s worth keeping – just hold on.