I would probably want to cook a decent turkey. Whether it was my mother or my sister, growing up in a matriarchal family in America, they always cooked the best turkeys and kinda ruled my life that way, so I would like one crack at it. I’d put a turkey in the oven, and that would give me a good five hours to do some other stuff.

Let’s pretend I’ve been training for my pilot’s licence. I’d like to take off in a two-seater sea plane from the loch in Mull and land it expertly in the little boating lake at Heaton Park. Which interestingly has a pair of my spectacles at the bottom of it from my last day at school in 1990.

I would obviously be in a good place chemically, the synapses would be content. I would play with my kids. I don’t think I would have time to watch anything by Ingmar Bergman. Bergman would suddenly feel like not that good a director if I only had a few hours.

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.