So far, getting older has made almost everything better.

Not feeling old but everyone treating you that way.

I was looking at ageing in action, in black-and-white MRI pixels, death and dissolution foretold, and already partly achieved. My 70-year-old brain was shrunken and withered, a worn and sad version of what it once must have been. There were also ominous white spots in the white matter, signs of ischaemic damage, small-vessel disease, known in the trade as white matter hyperintensities – there are various names for them. They looked like some evil pox. Not to put too fine a point on it, my brain is starting to rot. I am starting to rot. It is the writing on the wall, a deadline.

Am I enjoying it too much to find out?

Last year, during four days in January, when I directed Rhoda, my second short film, in a tiny house in Camberwell with Juliet Stevenson and Emma D’Arcy.

I think we go back into the earth.

You can only do one thing at a time.

My partner was doing a play in Hong Kong last year and I went to visit him, and I bought him a beautiful teacup. But I didn’t look at the price tag before I took it to the till and it was £100, the most expensive teacup imaginable.

I spent about five years living in Paris thinking I would become Kristin Scott Thomas, and it didn’t happen.

Ponderous, over thinking.