I don’t know and I don’t really care, because I’ll be dead, so it won’t really matter.

When my kids ask, “What happens when we die?” I say, “Do you remember the place you were in before you were born? I think we go back there.”

I’d never been envious of those who believe in an afterlife until now. It would be so much cosier than dissolution. She’s gone to the next room. Nope, can’t manage it. She’s gone to dust and rubble. Gone nowhere. No where to go to. No she to go to it. Much easier to be convinced you will be met in Elysian fields by a thousand virgins, or drink from fountains of Manhattans. I can’t even get close to what they call faith, though I quite see Pascal had a point.

And yet I can’t tell you, for no one can prove what happens on the other side. It’s like anybody’s guess until it happens. You can say, I believe this would happen, but you can’t prove it.

Working in farming in Somerset at 18, there were elements that were awful, and they were all really edifying. I mean, feeding chickens in sleet was hard work but I am so glad I did it.

Not having my injuries: shoulders, knees and ankles. I did a lot of contact sports as a kid.

A spirit of generosity.

I don’t care that much about legacy. Within family I do, but not externally.

This morning, in a really great conversation with my dad.

Know the things you are responsible for and the things you aren’t.