I’m not really ashamed, but I haven’t read Lord of the Rings.

Because it’s in one of my songs, War and Peace.

The Great Gatsby.

My own biography! Being serious, there’s an Australian novel by Gregory Roberts called Shantaram that I didn’t read through.

The only job I quit was, aged about 23, subediting a “men’s” magazine. My job was typing out readers’ pornographic fantasies. I started wishing people would reproduce by splitting down the middle.

I like the idea of being atoms that other people can breathe in, and fabulous worm food.

My soon-to-be ex-wife, Amanda. I wish I’d been able to do whatever would have been necessary all the way back to keep us as a unit. Probably the worst thing I did was not tell her how miserable I was, certain that I could turn this around somehow.

The idiocy of going to Skye from New Zealand in April 2020. All of a sudden, I’m turning on the news and hearing myself as an item. I have never been more mortified.

Imaginative, dull, amiable.

My kids, and getting some of the stories I had in my head on to paper in a way that wasn’t too far removed from the thing I dreamed about writing.