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I’m 43 years old, soon to be 44. One year, when work, a child and life in general were overwhelming, I thought I was turning 35 for quite a few months, before realising it was actually 34. A whole year had escaped me.

For the past few years, I have spent more time than I like to admit, thinking about death. Or rather, more honestly, about my own. Sometimes these thoughts are gentle, and sometimes they explode in my chest with a sensation not unlike falling.

The last explosion was triggered by this equation: my daughter is now 15, and those years have gone by almost in fast forward. In another 15 years, going by I imagine just as quickly, I will be nearly 60. This is where I stop breathing. Then breathe in, breathe out.