It’s easy to be sanguine and faux-wise about cancer when nothing’s happening, and it might not be very serious. I doubt I’d have the sang-froid if someone told me it was terminal or I had to have months of chemo. I don’t want to puke too much or feel pain.

I had a boyfriend with an ad agency and a shirt business once, who, when people copied his ideas, shrugged it off with ‘imitation is the sincerest form of flattery’. He had such generosity and grace. Meeting him again at a friend's book launch recently was still awkward. Even if once I wanted that, there’s no going back, even to friendship. That’s not to say I haven’t got back occasionally with exes, and it’s been terrifically wonderful knowing it was a one-off. The familiarity of our bodies outweighing the bad idea, the ease of undressing each other, the pile of clothes scattered around the floor as in days long past, and the familiar sexy magnetism. Even writing about it brings back a wistfulness for those good bad ideas.

Let’s stop generalising that we’re all wired for this or that. Especially touch. Some folx can’t get enough, for others, it needs to be specific, and only from certain people. I’m on edge with people rubbing my back in a hug, for example, yet a still hug with closeness is much appreciated. I prefer space, excitement and exploration to a cuddle puddle, while others love the draping and dreamlike states there. You can choose your touch as it’s not all the same quality. Becoming discerning takes awareness and contrast.

If you ever get a chance to take part in a Liquid Love, I’d recommend it. Blindfolds, warm oil, multiple anonymous naked bodies sliding around each other. As long as there’s no creeps who try to hold on too long, it’s a slow, sensual, oily, blissful heaven.

When I got tired of hanging around waiting for bookings to do tantric massage, I enjoyed a stint as a tantric escort. It’s perhaps the role I was most natural at and got me out of the temple and into the world. Strangers would slide me an envelope with £100 in it, to have lunch or a cocktail, and a conversation. And that was it. I loved hearing the men’s stories of loss and longing, simply listening or sharing peak experiences, occasionally encouraging them to take a next step. Then parting without expectation after the negroni or lunch felt complete. It felt like paid dating and restored my faith in men after the heartbreak days. I stopped it as I met someone, and started a relationship. I occasionally wonder if I could do it again? It feels like a mix of coaching and dating, a safe and sensual, non-judgmental cinq-à-sept. Martini optional.

Have you taken a shower with anyone recently? I sadly haven’t, but remember the eroticism of naked bodies, the rituals of soaping each other, the kissing under hot, running water. Delicious.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” works when you couldn’t care less about making friends with a lover's lover. The people who want kitchen table polyamory have a lot, some might say, too much time on their hands for emotional processing. And perhaps control issues masked as openness.

I’d love to be handfasted - committed for a year and a day. Committed to being loving,  accepting and willing to repeat, while knowing that it might not be possible.

Often incompatibility isn’t personal but feels like it is. It creeps in slowly. Despite the gleam and shine of new beginnings, what’s real (and what’s wrong for you) becomes recognisable over time as people show themselves, become less guarded and stop performing. You don’t have to stick around. Or you can simply enjoy the best of what's on offer and enjoy the gift of what is here, rather than bitching about what’s not. No one has to be perfect to fit yours, or mine, impossible standards. As long as you each understand the agreement you’re basing your relationship on, it’s easier. However, that's the thing that’s hard to talk about.

Strangers write to wish me well in my healing, or to say how much they enjoy the energy of my house. They’re so open in their kindness. It’s inspiring.

It’s in my human design to seek perfection. Reconciling that with disappointment while seeing the perfection in what’s around (roses are breathtaking), or attempting to create something beautiful, is my best response.

I’ve no idea whether the decision to be as natural as possible just makes me unkempt. No Botox, eyebrow sculpting, hair straightening, lip plumping, piercings, tattoos, gym or waxing. I can’t be bothered, it’s expensive, and it’d just make me look like everyone else with duck lips or inks. What’s wrong with wrinkles, and a tummy like a Renaissance nude? There’s no more virtue in either vanity or au natural. Yet I love going to the hairdresser; a blow-dry makes all the difference.

Polyamory would trigger my betrayal wound. Why would I put myself through that again? Even though I understand that some people are naturally poly, and the sense of freedom is also attractive, maybe only loyalty would be healing.

My sister was brave enough to vouch forth that I might have Pathological Demand Avoidance.  I had to look it up. Then wondered why every sane person wouldn’t have it. It’s a control response to anxiety, and can take the form of leading, or going one’s own way, rather than being in an environment where too many demands would be expected. It’s usually diagnosed as part of autism. I have wondered about whether I’m neurodivergent, as it makes some sense of how I like to know where I’m at with people and situations, yet I haven’t found a name for my nd yet. What’s neurotypical anyway?

I have a friend who’s just gone back on Match dating app, yet feels ambivalent about it.  Surely, it’s a time to be truthful and say if all she wants is occasional male energy or company to go to nice places, without the dread of some tinnie-drinking sports watcher taking up space on her new sofa, in her new home and future life.  Just like her ex-husband. In the brief time I was on a dating app years ago, I remember feeling incensed with some guy, let’s call him the patriarchy, telling me I needed to be clear about what I wanted. At the time, I was fishing and open to whatever was interesting. Which turned out to be not much, unless you count someone telling me how much I’d love their flat in a resort in Spain. Really? Yet now I concur with being clear.  Knowing what we don’t want gives us clues to what we do. Follow that impulse. The time for being nice is superseded by telling the truth of who you are and who you might be. Yet that’s a huge risk if what you want is to be picked.

Why not learn some new touch skills? Learn how to feel what’s under your hands, slow down, stop aiming for the t-zone or orgasm as a mark of your achievement. I learned to wake up my hands with a mug and this film.

Getting divorced in midlife is a shock. Learning to enjoy being alone is a big ask if you’ve enjoyed coupledom or family life. If you don’t want to change, divorce is inconvenient. However, if there’s an inevitability about it, when one person wants out, why delay the process? It’s time to catch up with reality and move on it. You have a new life to create, where all those structures you may not have realised were constraining you no longer apply unless you want to simply rinse and repeat. Which often looks like an easier option, and might be your dharma.

Voyeurism isn’t a kink. It’s avoidance. It’s getting someone else to take part in the sexual fray, so you don’t have to. It’s passing the buck on getting messy with consent, conversation or creating something intimate or exciting. It can still feel edgy if you’ve never done it before. But sitting on the sidelines watching and wanking is boringly banal over time.

Don't pressure me. My no is in my heels. Not the high heels of fantasy, but the resolute flat digging in.

A few years ago, I wrote a book, living above a cafe in a rice field overlooking Mount Agung in Bali. It’s one of my desks in beautiful places. There is rarely a day that I don’t wish to go back to that level of absorption I felt in Sidemen, the depth of immersion in discovering the stories inside of me ready to pour out. Only occasionally speaking to other guests at the cafe, and the 8-hour time difference, helped enormously. I often ate the same meal, nasi campur, twice a day, a mix of goodies with tofu and rice. I drank vivid-coloured red watermelon and purple dragon-fruit juice. And gave up milk in coffee as it wasn’t so easily available. The book might never see the light of day unless I find an agent. Now having recovery time in the UK ahead, I could go back to fault-finding, aka my fourteenth edit. Editing is enjoyably satisfying. And it keeps my natural perfectionism and inner critic confined to words and punctuation, rather than anywhere else where I upset people instead. It's the dealing with the distractions that’s tricky.