Before I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer a year and a half ago, I rather jauntily told the readers of my memoirs that when faced with extinction I wanted to be fully conscious and awake, in order to “do” death in the active and not the passive sense. And I do, still, try to nurture that little flame of curiosity and defiance: willing to play out the string to the end and wishing to be spared nothing that properly belongs to a life span. However, one thing that grave illness does is to make you examine familiar principles and seemingly reliable sayings. And there’s one that I find I am not saying with quite the same conviction as I once used to: In particular, I have slightly stopped issuing the announcement that “Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.”

To keep going and never give up, and to enjoy it to the absolute full because, at any moment, the curtain can fall.

And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual, but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life — achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest.

It occurred to me that at one point it was like I had two diseases – one was Alzheimer's and the other was knowing I had Alzheimer's. There were times when I thought I'd have been much happier not knowing, just accepting that I'd lost brain cells and one day they'd probably grow back or whatever. It is better to know, though, and better for it to be known, because it has got people talking, which I rather think was what I had in mind.

Less phone use.

Weirdly, sometimes exhaustion keeps me awake. If I am really tired, I won’t sleep well.

Missing a cue on stage. I had to come on and move a piece of furniture with another actor and I completely forgot. I looked at the monitor and said, “Why is he standing on his own?” And somebody said, “Aren’t you meant to help him?”

I once had to dress up as [fast food chain] Supermac’s bunny during a St Patrick’s Day parade and shake people’s hands. Kids kept trying to take off my gloves and punching my bunny head. It was awful.

Oversharing. I long to be intimately connected to people and sometimes, among strangers, I don’t read the room.

For being joyful.