In my 20s, touring small arts centres with my best mate, performing sketch comedy to a handful of people.

My first payday as a professional actor, knowing this was the beginning of the rest of my life, and the day my daughter told me I wasn’t the worst dad in the world.

Last night, having dinner with the family round the kitchen table.

Weirdly enough, in Portugal during confinement.

At the right time, and like my father—utterly without fear or pain, at home, with all whom I love. It was his last lesson as a parent to me.

The loss of anything, be it a loved one or a faculty—my sight, hearing, or mind.

My distractibility, diminishing memory, and capacity for sustained concentration. My English master once said I had the brain of a butterfly. I feel that 40 years later, I’ve evolved into Dory from Finding Nemo.

In my bed, a hot-water bottle on my tummy, the windows are open, reading a book that I’m already into, chocolate at hand, all with the knowledge that everyone I love and know is happy.

My mother. She’s 85 and rather than diminishing with age, she keeps surprising and growing more marvelous. She finds fun when most are jaded, wonder when most are cynical, and is curious when most are bored. She gave me life and continues to show me how to live it daily. And I know that everyone who meets her thinks the same.