I need a long and lingering death to make sure that I have time to have a deathbed conversion.

Sufficiently well to see Johnson and Truss and then two or three days later, she’s dead. I thought, that’s fantastic. That’s something to celebrate. That’s a great death.

Singing onstage—and everyone walking around me saying, “Look how happy she looks.”

That process depends on what you are dying of. The body can fail in ways that are extremely distressing, slowly and painfully, demanding much stoicism, or it can switch off with little more than a flash of dizziness. In my family we seem to have been uncommonly lucky in that respect. There was the 82-year-old uncle who was at a meet of the Norwich Stag Hounds, enjoying a drink with friends, when crash! And he fell off his horse, dead. There was the cousin in her eighties who fell dead as she was filling a kettle to make tea, and the other cousin, 98, who slipped away so gently that the sister who was holding her hand didn’t realise that she had stopped breathing.

Geoffrey's widow, Alma.

That I would lose her.

Walking in my garden in England with my wife.

Gregory Peck not mentioning me when he won best supporting actor at the Golden Globes for Father Mapple in Moby-Dick. I played Ahab.

A year ago, after only four lessons, skiing alone in the Sierras.