An extra day in the week when no one can contact you.

My chief consolation in this year of living dyingly has been the presence of friends. I can’t eat or drink for pleasure anymore, so when they offer to come it’s only for the blessed chance to talk. Some of these comrades can easily fill a hall with paying customers avid to hear them: they are talkers with whom it’s a privilege just to keep up. Now at least I can do the listening for free. Can they come and see me? Yes, but only in a way. So now every day I go to a waiting room, and watch the awful news from Japan on cable TV (often closed-captioned, just to torture myself) and wait impatiently for a high dose of protons to be fired into my body at two-thirds the speed of light. What do I hope for? If not a cure, then a remission. And what do I want back? In the most beautiful apposition of two of the simplest words in our language: the freedom of speech.

A little bit more self-confidence.

To be able to cycle from my home in Chiswick [west London] to the centre of London on a fully segregated lane.

The first 12 years of school. I was very unhappy. I was not academic, so I played the fool till I was 16.

I have an allotment. I’m also quite passionate about my allotment shed. Terrible season this year; no soft fruit to speak of, disappointing cabbages and my garlic got shocking rust.

I need to do more whale-watching. I must learn to play the guitar. I would like to play Uncle Vanya, King Lear and a panto Dame. The icing on that cake would be if they were all in the same season.

Charmed, twinkly, melancholic.

On my professional stage debut, I heard my drama tutor moan, “Oh no” from the rear stalls as soon as I appeared.

Upright.