When I was losing my sight, I couldn’t see where I was going, and I went into an undertaker’s thinking it was a barber’s. I asked the undertaker whether he had many waiting.

Eight or nine years ago, I disgraced myself in the Japanese ambassador’s home in Dublin, at a celebration for my late mother-in-law’s book about living in Japan. Afterwards, when I had to apologise, she told me it was the worst night of her life and, because I was drunk enough not to remember the details, it will never not be the most embarrassing night of my life. People are filling in details even now – “Remember when you fell under the table during the first course?”

If you’re a mother, you are embarrassing. Is that not just the way?

My first holy communion, where my trousers were too big for me and fell down, a circumstance which earned me both the instant contempt of the girls and the heightened interest of the priests. That’s just how it was in 1975.

Getting into a tense argument with Russell Crowe during one of the Vanity Fair Oscar parties.

Intermittent laziness.

Content. Cheerful. Appreciative.

That I didn’t go to Turkey during the pandemic for one of those male hair treatments.

It will be the one or two or three senior Republican leaders who take a public and forceful stand against the ugly lunacy of the Trump administration.

With dozens upon dozens of beautiful women weeping over my casket.