I was on a plane in India and I thought it was going to crash. It was an old, rickety thing. It was pre-children - I wouldn't do it now.

Maybe the night we drove a Hummer in Kabul and went to a cafe that Osama bin Laden supposedly used to frequent.

The print size in my mind decreased with time’s incremental decline, and as I arrived at the last word – weeks – it suddenly struck me, with all the force of the fullest sense of the word ‘struck’, that this could actually be his answer and not just the logical next time period in my sentence. Every cell in my body, except those responsible for maintaining a reasonable, calm exterior, was now lindy-hopping at that possibility, the only one that hadn’t occurred to me until that moment.

A gig in Chatham.

Any writer who thinks I’ve ruined their work in performance.

Dawn French, because I am sitting next to her and she says if I don’t say her, she will hurt me.

A birthday present I hoped would mean a lot to the person. I had their family history researched and a book made.

A cellist, inspired by my mum and dad’s friendship with Jacqueline du Pré, and seeing a documentary about her.

In my childhood, when I didn’t think about whether it was happy. It just was.

Listening to the last 10 minutes of the podcast S-Town. It is one of my favourite reminders of what life is truly all about.