A few weeks ago, I came back home, opened the front door of our bungalow in Blackrock, Co Louth, and the big blue balloon with the silver numbers on it veered towards me. For the previous two weeks it had clung to the ceiling in the hallway, daily losing energy and gradually becoming craggy. Now it tipped me on the head as if in a silent, final salute, shimmied out the door, briefly dipped hesitantly, and then slowly began to rise on the breeze.
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