Having a massage every week.

My chief consolation in this year of living dyingly has been the presence of friends. I can’t eat or drink for pleasure anymore, so when they offer to come it’s only for the blessed chance to talk. Some of these comrades can easily fill a hall with paying customers avid to hear them: they are talkers with whom it’s a privilege just to keep up. Now at least I can do the listening for free. Can they come and see me? Yes, but only in a way. So now every day I go to a waiting room, and watch the awful news from Japan on cable TV (often closed-captioned, just to torture myself) and wait impatiently for a high dose of protons to be fired into my body at two-thirds the speed of light. What do I hope for? If not a cure, then a remission. And what do I want back? In the most beautiful apposition of two of the simplest words in our language: the freedom of speech.

An all-embracing welfare state.

A halter for global mega companies, and the return of community. Throw in an ironing board that does the ironing and a floor that self-cleans.

I wanted to perform in some way, but I didn’t think it was viable. Teachers told me I should be a barrister, because I was always arguing with them.

Preparing for Sound Of Metal. Feeling challenged and overwhelmed and lost in something is very fulfilling.

Some of my teachers. I was a bit of a handful as a kid. They were just trying to do their job and I made it very difficult.

If I am remembered at all that would be nice. I won’t be picky.

Openness, curiosity and compassion.

I would care less about what people think.