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There's a hot-air balloon up in the sky. To the right side, two ropes are leading away from it, like an improvised bridge. Two people climb out of the balloon in order to climb along the bridge. The other end isn't visible, but I know that it's tied to another balloon.

I'm a child. I collect blankets from all over the house, as many as I can carry. One is lying next to my bed and it isn't covered. The bedcover is probably in the laundry. I ask my mother whether she'll drive to the balloon as well, but she says that if someone falls down 27 meters, a few blankets won't help him. She says she doesn't need to watch that.

I'm not a child anymore. I'm on the back seat of a car. My friends C. and B. are in the front, C. is steering. At a T-junction, I'm sure that we have to turn right, but the others drive left and I accept their decision. We get out of the town into the open countryside, close to where I grew up. A lot of meadows with a few small groves. For some reason, I'm given an irritated look when I mention that we just have to head for the meadow.

After a little while, we're standing at a dirt track. The car is gone. We're still three people, but the other two aren't C. and B. anymore. We have to sort balloons (small ones, now, like those used as decoration at parties) of various colours and shapes, lying in a suitcase. The others are arguing about this task and I scold them because of that.

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