At school I fancied the head boy. Harbouring a crush on him was a team sport: half my class shared the infatuation. "I really fancy you," I told him one day after lunch, all heart in mouth, hair in a ponytail and skin decorated not with make-up but with acne. "That's so nice of you," he said, and then after a pause added, "We don't even know each other." Despite his polite put-down, it felt good to be a spokesman for my . . .

I have often wondered how it might feel to carry the responsibility of devastating news. Nobody wants to be the one to break it, knowing that their words will bring someone else's world crashing down. But how would it feel to be faced with the task of informing loved ones of your own impending demise? If I had the chance, I would have asked my nan this question.She carried her cancer for months, telling no one. . . .