Sigh. Thoughts of autumn and death seem to be in the air.

More signs of my selfishness: I read this and wondered how my mother would eulogize me. I used to watch Unsolved Mysteries, once upon a time, and like cable news, a disproportionate number involved young white women who had mysteriously disappeared, often on a deserted stretch of highway. Invariably, the mothers (or fathers) described their daughters as full of life, fun, always cheerful and kind. The phrase "everybody loved her" inevitably popped up several times.

Now, perhaps Unsolved Mysteries only selects people who everybody actually loves. Or, possibly, the mothers can't see the reality of their daughters . . . my mother seems to honestly believe, despite all evidence, that my sister and I are both beautiful. Or maybe they just can't bear to tell the truth, that their daughters were fairly ordinary, with an ordinary number of friends and virtues.

But it seems impossible to imagine anyone saying about me "everybody loved her"; I am a distinctly aquired taste. I mean, as far as I know, no one actually hates me, but I'm pretty sure that the majority of my acquaintances would, if asked by a neutral third party, admit that they could take me or leave me. I'm not noticeably kind, cheerful, or thoughtful, and what thoughtfulness I do exhibit often turns out (to my vast dismay) to be of the "I wish she hadn't . . . " variety.

This is not to say that I don't have fine qualities. I am intelligent, compassionate, iconoclastic . . . and, erm . . . I can cook. I may have other endearing qualities as well. Which is what makes me curious: what would my fiercely honest mother say? I have difficulty imagining her staring wistfully at the floor and murmuring "everybody loved her". I wish I could hear my own eulogies.

Lest you take this and earlier posts as a sign that I am meditating excessively on my own death, let me hasten to explain that this is a sign of my self-absorption, not a morbid fixation on the thought of myself lying in ethereal state, surrounded by mounds of flowers and a satin-lined mahogany box. I often wish that I could read myself as described by a novelist friend using me in a thinly veiled portrayal. At least, I think I do. I've a feeling I wouldn't actually like it at all after I'd read about my more comically annoying qualities. In fact, I hate people talking about me behind my back; I get enraged when I find out someone I know has been doing it. But still, it's like doing drugs or having sex on a motorcycle . . . I know it's a very bad idea, but I still very much want to see myself described by a third person. Do others see me as fat or thin, pretty or plain, boisterous or boorish? Enquiring minds want to know.

I am thinking too much of myself. I need to be that novelist, writing characters, not wondering about what others think of me. I shall try to start writing sketches of the people around me. Artists can't be all inner life . . .