For someone inching their way towards their late twenties, I cry an awful lot. At films, at songs, at books, and, more embarrassingly, at all kinds of things that happen to me personally – from relationships to lost belongings. Luckily for me, I’m quite a discreet crier and awkward situations have been minimal.

Over the years I’ve had plenty of tricky relationships; lovers I didn’t love or who didn’t love me. I cried every remnant of them out of my system. And that’s generally considered a healthy thing.

But I can’t stop myself from sometimes also welling up when a get a writing-rejection – the short stories I send out are captured and calcified parts of myself after all. I also occasionally find myself crying over a manuscript I can’t manhandle correctly. That’s on the days when the idea of not being able to reproduce that particular moment on paper is a terrible one.

So I’m looking at my life and my collection of tissues and I’m thinking: what’s provoked the greatest flood, the men or the manuscripts?

I’d slip into my finest mad-scientist-lady outfit if I thought I could juggle the test tubes to weigh up the tears, but I can’t help wondering if I’d really want to know the answer. I’m not sure what kind of person it would reveal me to be.