I’ve been to two postmortems in real life, and spent the last 14 years talking about death at work – so, pretty close.

On a camping holiday in Scotland when I was nine: I was in an inflatable dinghy that drifted out to sea. A lifeboat had to come.

I had heart surgery when I was 17. The other time was when I fell off my piano. My head was an inch away from a metal step.

I have more than once in my time woken up feeling like death. But nothing prepared me for the early morning last June when I came to consciousness feeling as if I were actually shackled to my own corpse. The whole cave of my chest and thorax seemed to have been hollowed out and then refilled with slow-drying cement. I could faintly hear myself breathe but could not manage to inflate my lungs. My heart was beating either much too much or much too little. Any movement, however slight, required forethought and planning.

A warm blanket.

A mortician – I worked in a funeral home when I was 14.

The trans community because I didn’t use the correct words, but I’ve learned from my mistake.

I wouldn’t have taken that meeting [with Weinstein in 1997].

When I was 15, I conned my way into an office job at a company that represented makers of breast implants. The manager had a wart on the end of her tongue that she’d push against her teeth, making a very specific sound.

Waking people up.