How many times I could have died before now, and in how many different ways. And yet I came close only once: a speeding sedan ran a red light, hit three other vehicles, and jack-knifed into my rear wheel split second after I’d stepped out of my parked car. A bystander described the scene to me later. “You were a millimetre away from losing your legs,” he said.

It is a very rare affliction. A GP would expect to meet it once in a career and this form of brain cancer is unpredictable and dangerous. Usually, this tumour might give you only a two-year span since its discovery. I have had two operations and one course of radiotherapy and now three chemotherapies (one currently starting). My death is, in a sense, imminent. I say to myself: I am dying. Something in my head is hurrying to kill me.

In the 1990s in New Jersey, being driven to a radio station early one morning. Our driver fell asleep and we were on the other side of a dual carriageway with cars coming at us. We all screamed and banged on the seat, and he woke up and pulled the car back across.

When I was 13, I was on a bicycle and got hit by a taxi in New York.

Probably when our children were small, which is not to say I am unhappy now.

Watching seeds grow in the greenhouse. Drawing or reading or cooking.

I don’t think so! You can’t really know that until the moment of your death, at which point you will probably not be afraid because you won’t be there. I have a very old friend who called me last year to say, “Okay I am done. I am not fighting this anymore. I am checking out. I am calling to say goodbye because I am not really conscious most of the time. I am cutting off the pain killers.” He seemed okay. That was not the moment of his death, but it was within two or three days.

I admire the mother of my children a great deal, because she’s interesting, smart and funny.

That they’re kind, trustworthy, smart, and can hear and communicate and aren’t afraid to do so.