Two ears. I am deaf in my right ear and I’ve just developed musical tinnitus – it’s not an interesting tune and you don’t choose it. I had three weeks of Hare Krishna night and day. Then it changed to Rod Stewart’s Sailing.

More sleep, less stress.

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.

Becoming more physically active.

It’s hard to beat David Attenborough. Everything he does is quality. I like people who make me proud to be British.

“I don’t love you.”

I love clothes and accoutrements, so it would be either a suit or a watch. I love Mark Powell in Soho, and Paul Smith.

When I am in Italy with the family, not thinking about work.

I wanted to be a footballer and then a squash player – I was in with a chance because I was very good. But I fell out of love with that by 14 or 15 and joined a youth theatre.

Thinking about all the worst possible things: losing people, dying, how am I going to die? All that sort of stuff. I stay awake thinking about furniture and shoes as well. It’s not all death.