Six months ago, I decided to move house. I got a skip, cleared everything out and then thought: “Why am I doing this?” So I remained, and I’m glad I did.

I always thought I would be a terrible driver because I’m sort of a wafty person, but it turns out I am very good at staying in between the lines. I passed my test last year.

I bought a house with someone and realised at the housewarming party that it was a mistake.

When I now think of how the uncertainty about my own future, and the proximity of death, threw me into torment, careering wildly between hope and despair, I look back in wonder at how little I thought about the effect I had on my own patients after I had spoken to them. I did worry that if my tone of voice was too pessimistic the poor patient might spend what little time they had left feeling deeply depressed, simply waiting to die. So I tried to find a balance between telling them the truth and not depriving them of hope. After a patient died, I only occasionally heard back from the family, so I had little way of knowing whether the way I had spoken to them was appropriate or not.

My late 20s, writing my third record.

Three days ago. I don’t even know why. Sometimes I just feel emotional about how vulnerable humans are.

Myself. I didn’t know how to protect myself adequately when I was younger, and I think I would have experienced my youth differently if I had.

I would get therapy in my early 20s.

Genuine love is given freely, not by force.

Cheerful, sensitive, sassy.