How many times I could have died before now, and in how many different ways. And yet I came close only once: a speeding sedan ran a red light, hit three other vehicles, and jack-knifed into my rear wheel split second after I’d stepped out of my parked car. A bystander described the scene to me later. “You were a millimetre away from losing your legs,” he said.

I had a cardiac arrest in 2010. I also had a close call in the early days in Cardiff when I was in a band called the Denims. We were in a van driving along a narrow mountain road. Somebody wanted to go to the toilet, so we stopped, and afterwards the driver took a wrong turn and we went careering down the mountain. Everyone was screaming, it was like a nightmare. At the bottom was the railway line, but the van stopped just in time. We were very lucky.

It’s nearly happened twice, each time after an operation.

I broke both my legs in a hit-and run accident when I was 26.

In the hospital after my C-section, hanging out with my new baby, feeling very, very happy and grateful.

It’s all a learning experience, even if it’s a shit time.

A veterinarian, but I decided against it because it required too many years of schooling; I wasn’t great at school.

Having my family in closer proximity, but that’s what comes with living in another country.

As somebody who brought joy to people.