I should have sung with David Gilmour at Carnegie Hall because I'm a massive fan of Pink Floyd.

The public mistakes I’ve made. Most recently, I tried to light an e-cigarette on an aeroplane and was told to put it out. I completely forgot I was on a plane. I’d had, like, three drinks, but it only takes three. I stopped as soon as I got off and I got straight back into my programme, because that’s what I do.

I should have known that I might not like what my brain scan showed, just as I should have known that the symptoms of prostatism that were increasingly bothering me were just as likely to be caused by cancer as by the benign prostatic enlargement that happens in most men as they age. But I continued to think that illness happened to patients and not to doctors, even though I was now retired. Twenty months after I had my brain scanned, I was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. I had had typical symptoms for years, steadily getting worse, but it took me a long time before I could bring myself to ask for help. I thought I was being stoical when in reality I was being a coward. I simply couldn’t believe the diagnosis at first, so deeply ingrained was my denial.

I would not leave my teenage children to follow an unworthy love. It lasted a month and scarred the family for ever.

Unfinished songs.

President Jimmy Carter, for his single-handedness in working to eradicate the guinea worm.

A halter for global mega companies, and the return of community. Throw in an ironing board that does the ironing and a floor that self-cleans.

I cook a mean dal.

Now, by far. Old enough to know time’s short, young enough to use it.

Dylan’s I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight.