During my severe clinical depression in 2016. I was at Piccadilly station in Manchester and a train was coming.

Today is a pretty important day. It was August 15th, 2007, when I was told I likely had "three to six months of good health left." Today is six months from that day. Just to prove I'm still alive, here I am, holding today's New York Times! I rode my bike today; the cumulative effects of the chemotherapy are hurting my stamina some, but I bet I can still run a quarter mile faster than most Americans. The doctors weren't wrong; they always said that if the palliative chemo worked, I'd buy more time, but that it was a long shot. And the doctors have done a brilliant job of tweaking my regimen to help my odds. How much longer this will work is hard to know, but I'm going to keep having fun every day I have left, no matter how many or how few of them I get.

I’m closer today than I was yesterday.

In 2012 I stared into the eyes of someone who had just stabbed a man in the neck on the street. I was trying to help the victim; for a very long three or four seconds, I thought he was going to come for me next.

Comforting, uplifting, all consuming.

My ex-wife, for the way I behaved towards the end of our marriage.

“You can’t play Maxim de Winter with ginger hair.”

Frequently, especially now with what’s happening in the Middle East.

Never working again.

To still be working.