Julie Burchill

Sometime in my 40s I discovered on the internet that my name featured on a list of people in the public eye who would soon likely ‘buy the farm’, ‘go west’, ‘join the church triumphant’ – in short, die. I can’t say I was bothered. As it was run by fellow (lesser) hacks, I presumed that it was partly wishful thinking. And I was doing masses of cocaine in those days, from the age of 25 to 55, when I gave it up literally overnight, so it seemed fair comment.

Now I’m 64, I’d actually be more surprised if I featured on such a roll call; I’m nearly ten years off the marching powder and, for my age, fighting fit. But again, I wouldn’t be a bit upset. Because as I get older, my fear of death, never huge in the first place, just a normal amount of trepidation, has lessened. Now, when I think about dying, I simply imagine the biggest embrace that ever existed.

I’ve experienced the deaths of the people I loved most in various ways. My son, by suicide, at 29. My father, at 70, dying slowly from the terrible disease of mesothelioma over decades; my mother, also at 70, dying of a heart attack in my arms. The same thought came to my mind about all three: they weren’t ready to go; they had so much more they wanted to do. But I am – and I don’t.

Sorrow is sometimes an inappropriate response to death; when a life has been lived completely

‘I IMAGINE THE BIGGEST EMBRACE THAT EVER EXISTED’

honestly, completely successfully or just completely, the correct response to death’s perfect punctuation mark is a celebration. I’ve had the time of my life; it would be weak, needy and greedy to be reluctant to leave the party.

And anyway, the afterparty will be even better.