I go in every day to the office. I don't accomplish hardly anything. I mean, in terms of – it just takes me way longer to do things. And Greg is so good. It was kind of embarrassing how good he is, because he has covered – you know, we've got about 200 businesses within Berkshire, you know, that came about, and I can't name the manager's names or their wives names, or – and I haven't seen them, you know, in a long time. It's easier just to write the letter once a year and kind of do my own thing. Greg covers more ground in a day than I would in a week, even when I was at my peak, let alone my present condition.

When my father was in his terminal year, I discussed death with him. I recall very clearly his relief that the cancer that was taking him was at least allowing him "all his marbles". Dementia in its varied forms is not like cancer. Dad saw the cancer in his pancreas as an invader. But Alzheimer's is me, unwinding, losing trust in myself, a butt of my own jokes and on bad days capable of playing hunt the slipper by myself and losing. You can't battle it, you can't be a plucky "survivor". It steals you from yourself. And I'm 60; that's supposed to be the new 40.

Nothing. I’m curious how things will evolve.

I saw them recently on their morning walk, and they caused me a pang. I have always wanted a pug and now I can't have one, because buying a puppy when you are too old to take it for walks is unfair. There are dog-walkers, of course; but the best part of owning a dog is walking with it, enjoying its delight when it detects the signs that a walk is imminent, and its glee when its lead is unsnapped and it can bound off over the grass, casting cheerful looks back at you from time to time to make sure that you are still in touch.

When I had cancer. I was having a shave and thought: “Are you meant to have a big hard lump on one side of your neck?”

Through a series of mistakes in write-ups, I’d like to be remembered for something like being Britain’s finest downhill skier or inventing pickled onions.

My kids. I think if you don’t want to say sorry to your kids you’ve been an appalling parent.

Should talk less.

When I was 16, my dad got drunk at the Oval cricket ground and harangued Sir Garry Sobers, possibly the greatest cricketer of all time, because he didn’t agree with who he’d given as man of the match.

At 16, I thought I’d be part of transforming the world into a socialist egalitarian arena of peace and justice. I’m not sure we’ve quite managed it.