Strip away being infatuated with me for five minutes: which parts of your current life would you eventually resent giving up?

Three things, and they're real ones.

A workspace of my own. Not a corner of a living room — a room with a door that shuts. Partly because of how I work: badly, at strange hours, with far too many screens. And partly because we're both people who work from home, and I meant what I said on Sunday about the true crime podcast. So: the door, and probably one of those co-working subscriptions as well, so we're not in the same building for eleven hours a day. A door also means the 43-inch monitor can go on lighting up half the village without also lighting up you.

Choosing my work. I take projects because they interest me, turn down the ones that don't, and undercharge people I like. I'd resent being pushed towards steady, sensible, salaried work — and I want to be clear this isn't recklessness dressed up as principle. The floor we talked about is the income. Everything on top of it is surplus. That's exactly what the floor is for: it means I never have to take a job I hate in order to keep anyone safe. Giving that up would be trading the one real advantage of the entire miserable epilepsy business for nothing.

Projects in Kenya. This is the one I'd actually turn bitter about, so I'll be plain. It isn't travel and it isn't nostalgia. Education and development work in East Africa is the thread running through my whole adult life — it's what EduVision was, it's why a Nairobi football club got a website from me for free last week, and it is, if I'm honest, what I was reaching for when I said I wanted to be the Dr Herren of technology rather than agriculture. A week or two a year, occasionally more. Not a relocation. But not nothing, and not something to be quietly phased out over a decade.

You got there before I did, incidentally. On the sixteenth you told me you'd hate to become a constraint on the things I could build, and I rather brushed it aside and told you off for thinking in zero-sum terms. You were being generous and I answered it as though it were a problem to be corrected. So — thank you. This is the version of it I'd actually want.

That's the list. Three items. The shortness isn't modesty; it's the honest answer. Everything else genuinely is available.