The rest of that night is a feverish blur. I asked to talk to my mom; had a slice of chocolate cake; prayed. I remember waking up every few hours and seeing my mother praying by my bedside, then every nurse in the hospital, and then every cleaning staff member who loved my father for his kindness toward them throughout the years — all praying for me.

Anywhere but the M25, rushing around in circles going nowhere with no one.

I would have my last meal in my office – since I spend most of my time there. But to cook I’d invite the Riviera’s Argentine chef Luciano “Lucho” Nardelli. My guests would be the architects who have worked closely with me: Pedro Ribeiro, Diana Radomysler, Suzana Glogowski and Renata Furlanetto; we’re working on a fantastic project in Barcelona.

I’ll have to write the greatest song I’ve ever written. You know, every day I get up, I live most days like they’re my last. I wake up with a kind of fear in my belly, with a feeling like, ‘This is it – go for it.’ So in many respects, it won’t be that much different from any other day. Knowing my luck, if I knew it was going to be my last day I’d make an elaborate arrangement. But something always goes wrong – like the gas boiler would explode. I’m not very good at making plans, so I live every day as if it’s my last. But I’d have to write a great song.

A lawyer. I did work experience and was sent to the public gallery at the high court. The man in the dock was a 50-year-old accused of buggering a cat on the Metropolitan line. I decided to become a musician instead.

To the British public generally. They know why.

I put out a song called Monsters on my last album, about my father’s illness – he had stage four chronic kidney disease – and a handful of people offered him a new kidney. People’s kindness really touched me.

If my children could change their own nappies.

Like nothing else, I guess.