I’m at the top of a steep staircase holding a suitcase, and my feet are bigger than each of the steps. I visualise myself tumbling down, screaming uncontrollably, and landing at the bottom with splayed limbs and blood seeping from my head.
Scenarios like this are commonplace in my life. Why? Because – like a lot of people – I’m a worrier. It’s a characteristic I always poked fun of in my mother growing up, as she chewed the skin around her fingers until it bled while contemplating next month’s gas bill. Nowadays, it’s a characteristic that unfortunately unites us – our bi-weekly phone calls frequently peppered with the phrase ‘I don’t know what you worry for’ (that’s northern speak for ‘I don’t know why you’re worrying about that’).