Two years ago at the age of 52 I had a minor heart attack. I know it was minor, because I’m still here to tell the tale. It happened just as lockdown began, so I was alone during surgery, and was not permitted visitors in the hospital ward. In several respects, I preferred being alone. Before I went into theatre, I had a few moments to think about my life. I said a few prayers, mainly of the “please let me survive, I have three children, two dogs and a nice husband” kind. But my overwhelming feeling was of gratitude. I have had a wonderful life. I’ve travelled the world, spent most of my working life reading and writing books, and have met great friends along the way. If it were time to meet my maker, I felt ready. Nevertheless, I was grateful for the surgeon’s optimism and warmth, and the last-minute phone call to my friend, a doctor, who reassured me that I would definitely live to tell the tale.