As health minister, I brought in breast and cervical cancer screening. And in 1994 I called the first debate on gay rights for a quarter-century and we got the age of consent down to 18. There are pubs in Brighton where I still can’t pay for a drink.

Staying sane in a career path that tries endlessly to unnerve you.

The contentment I have now.

Being friends with all of the people I grew up with.

My soon-to-be ex-wife, Amanda. I wish I’d been able to do whatever would have been necessary all the way back to keep us as a unit. Probably the worst thing I did was not tell her how miserable I was, certain that I could turn this around somehow.

Mostly the pain. I don’t want to be trapped in a body that hurts.

Imaginative, dull, amiable.

The idiocy of going to Skye from New Zealand in April 2020. All of a sudden, I’m turning on the news and hearing myself as an item. I have never been more mortified.

And when things get tough, this is what you should do. Make good art. I’m serious. Husband runs off with a politician? Make good art. Leg crushed and then eaten by mutated boa constrictor? Make good art. IRS on your trail? Make good art. Cat exploded? Make good art. Somebody on the Internet thinks what you do is stupid or evil or it’s all been done before? Make good art. Probably things will work out somehow, and eventually time will take the sting away, but that doesn’t matter. Do what only you do best. Make good art.

The only job I quit was, aged about 23, subediting a “men’s” magazine. My job was typing out readers’ pornographic fantasies. I started wishing people would reproduce by splitting down the middle.