When I was nine years old my best friend Kevin, who was eleven, died suddenly, of leukaemia. I didn’t even know he was ill – I’d been told he’d gone into hospital but not that it was serious. I still remember my dad telling me that he’d died. He was stood on the other side of the room; I don’t remember being hugged or held and I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. It’s like one minute he was there and the next he was just gone…

Thirty years after he died, a few years ago now, I went to visit his grave. I stood in the grey autumn afternoon, looking at the little rose bush that was planted as a memorial and I remember very clearly thinking that it should have been me. Kevin would have made a much better attempt at life than I have; he would have done more, achieved more, would have been of more value to the world than I ever was or could be.

I still have that feeling when I think of him, which is pretty often, I guess; haven’t really told anyone that before – don’t even think I told my therapist, when I had one – so I just wanted to say it, really. Thanks for listening.