I’ve been lugging around Doris Lessing’s books, which I have yet to read.

I used to give a fantastic talk about Frankenstein and Dracula, but I’ve never been able to finish either book.

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

I’m going to confess I haven’t finished The Climate Book by Greta Thunberg.

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

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.

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.

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.

Mostly the pain. I don’t want to be trapped in a body that hurts.

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.