The fact that I smoke.

Becoming invisible.

I don’t think anything scares me. It’s a gift and I want to embrace it.

I was looking at ageing in action, in black-and-white MRI pixels, death and dissolution foretold, and already partly achieved. My 70-year-old brain was shrunken and withered, a worn and sad version of what it once must have been. There were also ominous white spots in the white matter, signs of ischaemic damage, small-vessel disease, known in the trade as white matter hyperintensities – there are various names for them. They looked like some evil pox. Not to put too fine a point on it, my brain is starting to rot. I am starting to rot. It is the writing on the wall, a deadline.

Hungry, hard-working, cats.

Perimenopausal anxiety, the terrible feeling of impending doom, something awful happening to my children, writing deadlines. Apart from that, I’m quite chilled.

The early days of motherhood. We lived in a sweet little bungalow in LA that had a pool. We threw lots of parties. We had a cute dog and a mad Siamese. Trump had never been president, we’d never heard of coronavirus, Claire’s Accessories was still going strong. Good times.

Not winning Celebrity MasterChef. I am still gutted, despite many months of pretending to be fine with it.

When I ruin someone else’s story because I think mine is better, so butt in before they’ve finished theirs.

A drunk woman who threw epic dinner parties.