It would be too late to write my autobiography. I guess I would drink coffee and talk with my friends. Hopefully we could do some jamming as well that would be recorded. I think it would be quite an emotional moment. I would definitely be playing flute. Flute is the instrument of death in a way.

I would make love all night. I don’t think I’d like to drink any alcohol or take any drugs because it cuts you off from reality and I would like to be really present and conscious during my last day on Earth.

Book all the headliners that I’ve never managed to book for Bestival, for future Bestivals that my children will run after I die. Kate Bush, Prince, Dolly Parton, David Bowie – maybe throw Iron Maiden in there for a bit of a laugh. I’d get on the mobile and stroll around outside and do some deals. Maybe get some of these hard-arse agents to give me a bit of a discount as I’m dying.

I’d need instant satellite communication on my website and a camera. The achievement now would be to channel the last songs before I drop the body. If I was healthy and not ill I would like to spend the hours composing on camera online with as many people that wanted to experience the last day of song writing.

Myself. I have never been harder on anyone else.

A ballerina. I remain rather disappointed that I became a rock star instead.

Climate change. That is the single most important calamity in the making that I obsess over.

Like a cosy cloud of softness coupled with an orthopaedic mattress underneath.

I don’t care if I am remembered or not.

My dog’s trust in me.