When I was about two, I accidentally knocked a boiled kettle on myself. I am scarred, in many ways, from that.

Climbing in Tibet, surfing in Australia and a moment ago by a courgette cutter as I dithered over one of these questions.

So, when many years later I really was near death as a result of a haemorrhage after a miscarriage, and heard a doctor saying “She’s very near collapse – call the lab and tell him to run” and understood that the “him” was the person fetching the blood they were going to pump into me, I was not in the least alarmed as I dimly wondered if I had the strength left to think some suitable Last Thought, concluded that I hadn’t, and said to myself the words: “Oh well, if I die I die.” I was sure, then, that nothingness was just that.

In 2016, I fell off stage in Switzerland and broke my back in four places.

In my mid- to late-20s, in London, beginning to publish, living hand to mouth, having fun. Also now, when love and life and work have finally cohered.

To have grown up with my siblings. They were at least 10 years older than me.

The BBC World Service followed by the dawn chorus.

Exhilarating. I’ve been extremely lucky in that the person I love, Annalena, happens to be my wife.

Angela Merkel. Under attack from all sides, she tries to keep alive the dreams of a tolerant, inclusive, open society.