Remember that time your balloon burst and all your family laughed at you, when you were seven?

You were seven. It was on Southend sea front, and it was the late May bank holiday, and it was an airshow, on the sea front, with all the planes flying around, over the river, which the people of Southend pretended was the sea, in the hope that people would think it was some sort of resort, and ocme there, and do whatever it is that people do on the beach, by the sea, and you had a ballon in your hand, an beautiful ballon filled with helium, floating beautiful upwards on a pice of string, and you held onto that string as tightly as possible, in fear, in protection, and then you went into the public toilets while your family wated outside, yoru mother, and your father, and both of your brothers, and your sister, and your nan, and your grandad, and then just as the door closed behind you your ballon exploded, and the string fell limp to the floor, bits of plastic still attached, dead now, and you burst into tears, and turned around, and outside all your family looked at you, and they laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Sometimes you wonder if you ever recovered

The End

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