Right, I went back as a mature student to art school, and I was advised to use my train journeys and commutes, or to just take time in the morning before work to sit down and write something. That was, I think, the beginnings of understanding what it meant to have a writing practice.

I remember meeting the photographer Brassaï. I was a young photographer. He said, “Take your time, look at things. Look carefully.” I liked the idea that it’s not the act; it’s what you have in mind before you take a picture.

I want you to make bold decisions. I want you to make your own choices.

Her lesson all the time was “To them to whom much has been given, of them will much be required.”

At this age? A batty old lady wandering around talking to herself? But I do that anyway. Oh, you mean what would I have been. Maybe a botanist. If so, I’d be genetically engineering drought-resistant crops right now. Either that, or sentient fungi. (I know, I know, Mr. Sheldrake: they’re already sentient. So, more sentient.)

The white-water canoe run I did solo at Lady Evelyn Park 20 years ago. It was impromptu. It took the skin off my knees. It was an unnecessary risk.

Of a painless disease, with a month’s warning, on a spring day, with some good news in hand.

I would so much like to have a daily writing schedule. If I had one, I'd probably start about 9.30, write for 2 hours, have lunch, write another 2, then goof off. As it is, I goof off, then panic and write in the evenings. Do not follow my example.

Block? Not as such, but I've had to throw things out because they weren't working. Sometimes I just get lazy, but that's not the same a s a block.

Don’t sit down in the middle of the woods. If you’re lost in the plot or blocked, retrace your steps to where you went wrong. Then take the other road. And/or change the person. Change the tense. Change the opening page.