Coming under attack while reporting in Iraq.

Today is a pretty important day. It was August 15th, 2007, when I was told I likely had "three to six months of good health left." Today is six months from that day. Just to prove I'm still alive, here I am, holding today's New York Times! I rode my bike today; the cumulative effects of the chemotherapy are hurting my stamina some, but I bet I can still run a quarter mile faster than most Americans. The doctors weren't wrong; they always said that if the palliative chemo worked, I'd buy more time, but that it was a long shot. And the doctors have done a brilliant job of tweaking my regimen to help my odds. How much longer this will work is hard to know, but I'm going to keep having fun every day I have left, no matter how many or how few of them I get.

A car crash in the Utah mountains in 2005. We were driving from Arizona to Salt Lake City to go to a basketball game and the car slipped on black ice and we skidded off the motorway, flipped over and rolled down a ravine. The police officer said it was the worst accident he’d seen in 18 years when nobody died.

I was invited to Sharon Tate’s house the night she was murdered. I declined the invite due to jetlag.

I tried my best.

In recent times, when I was looking after my mum. She would take me on journeys in her mind and I’d travel with her wherever she went. I felt happy that I had the opportunity to have that time despite her illness.

I think we live on in people’s memories until those memories go.

That I don’t give myself enough credit.

Curious, kind and frustrating – because I ask too many questions.

When I was younger, I signed up to a job agency and thought I would be doing secretarial work, but they assigned me to clean toilets in a factory in Oldham.