A house in west London.

A sense of what’s right, a few quid and some nice paintings.

The best possible understanding of who they are and where they came from.

Yet one thing cannot be robbed of her futurity: my daughter, Cady. I hope I’ll live long enough that she has some memory of me. Words have a longevity I do not. I had thought I could leave her a series of letters — but what would they really say? ... There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future, overlapping briefly with me, whose life, barring the improbable, is all but past. That message is simple: When you come to one of the many moments in life when you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied.

A drunk woman who threw epic dinner parties.

The early days of motherhood. We lived in a sweet little bungalow in LA that had a pool. We threw lots of parties. We had a cute dog and a mad Siamese. Trump had never been president, we’d never heard of coronavirus, Claire’s Accessories was still going strong. Good times.

Not winning Celebrity MasterChef. I am still gutted, despite many months of pretending to be fine with it.

Perimenopausal anxiety, the terrible feeling of impending doom, something awful happening to my children, writing deadlines. Apart from that, I’m quite chilled.

Hungry, hard-working, cats.

Clothes moths (and the imminent threat of world war three).