Pain and loneliness.

Becoming doubly incontinent.

I understand that you lose the register of hearing that enables you to hear crickets, and when I can’t hear crickets in the summer I’ll be really sad.

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.

Oversharing my personal life, but here we are, oversharing!

Happy Day by Sarkodie. I’m half Ghanaian, and in Ghana funerals really are a celebration of life. You dance and sing; it’s just a completely different vibe to over here in the UK. I would hope at my funeral that everyone’s on their feet, having a good time.

“Oh, she giggled, didn’t she?”

Unbending opinions.

That fear and excitement sometimes feel quite similar and you can misinterpret one for the other.

Watching the documentary The Remarkable Life of Ibelin [about a gamer who died at 25 of a degenerative muscular disease]. I bawled.