This is so heavy. If I’m never going to see my kids and husband again, it’s to let them know how giantly, massively and crazily I love them. Every ounce of me loves them so deeply, it makes me cry.

An extremely large amount of partying. Just the hardest partying anyone has ever done, ever. Going out in a blaze of burning party fireball glory. Beaming, streaming, and teaming waves of wonder and pleasure crashing over me in euphoric surges of glorious oblivion.

I think that dying might bring about a profound loneliness. I don’t feel lonely in life, but I do think this would be a very hard discovery at the end. Assuming there might be a time of consciousness, I think that serious medication might be a help. Not to put me out, but to smooth things over. The last time I had surgery, the anesthesiologist visited me in Recovery and gave me a sheet of paper on which was listed all of the drugs he had administered. I was glad to get it after the surgery, since I went down the list thinking, That’s what killed Michael Jackson, that’s what killed Prince. I don’t take recreational drugs, never did, but I would like to have the option of taking the edge off of fear. People I love at my bedside—I don’t see that being a comfort, but a reminder of who I’ll be losing. Music might be welcome. I could imagine wanting to hear Jorma Kaukonen sing “Genesis.”

Book all the headliners that I’ve never managed to book for Bestival, for future Bestivals that my children will run after I die. Kate Bush, Prince, Dolly Parton, David Bowie – maybe throw Iron Maiden in there for a bit of a laugh. I’d get on the mobile and stroll around outside and do some deals. Maybe get some of these hard-arse agents to give me a bit of a discount as I’m dying.