There are people in this world who think taking a risk involves wearing a red tie on a Tuesday. This is exactly what T.S Elliot was talking about in Lovesong for J. Alfred Prufrock – daring to eat a peach, measuring out your days in coffee spoons.

I have been feeling low on risk taking lately, and poorer for it. I have felt my world shrink wrap down into a little ball that is my home, the TV and the endless intoxication of streaming services.

The problem with shrinking your comfort zone down to a 40m x 40m square is that it gets increasingly hard to expand it again. It may feel safe but it’s actually quite dangerous for your mental health unless you plan on spending your life alone inside your house, getting everything home delivered.

I usually get a good shake up when I travel overseas. All that new information travels recklessly along my synapses and veers off well worn paths, crashing into the undergrowth.

That’s how discoveries are made. The Lost Cities of Gold, hidden in a jungle full of shopping lists, and mince meat dishes, and folded laundry.

With overseas travel off the table, I have decided to hack my way through a different kind of jungle. My risk of the week (or possibly, my whole lifetime, since it has taken me this long to try it) is to publicly declare myself an artist.

A paint-spattered lady who catches thoughts and feelings and spills messy guts onto canvas; like a fishwife but slightly less stinky.

It’s the first time I’ve felt really f*cking scared in a while (and it’s exhilarating).

What risk are you willing to take to become more alive?