Dr Carol Thomas B.E.M., D.Univ - Lioness # 22

Apple is named after a fruitarian diet, and the man who named it spent nine months treating a rare, slow-growing, operable tumour with juice and a vegan diet before he would let a surgeon anywhere near it. Steve Jobs was 21 and had just come back from an apple orchard on a commune in Oregon when he suggested the name. He was, in his own words, on one of his fruitarian diets, and it sounded fun, spirited and not intimidating. He took his diets as an article of faith. He was convinced the regime kept him so clean that he could do without the shower and the deodorant, and at Atari his colleagues complained until he was moved to the night shift. In October 2003 a scan found a tumour on his pancreas. It was a neuroendocrine tumour, the rarer kind, slow-growing and treatable, and his doctors wanted it out. He refused. For nine months he treated it himself: a strict vegan diet, large quantities of fresh carrot and fruit juice, acupuncture, herbal remedies, bowel cleansing, and the advice of a natural healing clinic that ran on juice fasts. He also consulted a psychic. "I really didn't want them to open up my body," he told his biographer, "so I tried to see if a few other things would work." Walter Isaacson heard a hint of regret in it. In July 2004 he went into surgery at last. The surgeons found three spots of cancer on his liver. He had a liver transplant in Memphis in 2009. The cancer came back. He died on 5 October 2011, aged 56. In 2013 Ashton Kutcher played him in a film, and prepared for the part by eating the way Jobs had eaten. Two days before shooting started he was in hospital. "I was like doubled over in pain," he said. "My pancreas levels were completely out of whack." Kutcher wanted to get inside the character. His pancreas got there first.

Walker: "I nearly bought a wool jumper in town. £140. Nice work if you can get it." Farmer: "I got about £2 for the fleece." Walker: "£2?" Farmer: "Per sheep, per year. Clipped it off her in two minutes, rolled it, bagged it, drove it to the depot. The cheque for the whole flock didn't cover the diesel." Walker: "Then who's getting the £140?" Farmer: "Not me, not the shearer. He costs me more per sheep than the wool fetches. I pay to have it taken off." Walker: "So you lose money shearing." Farmer: "Every year. And I can't not shear, or she cooks in July and the flies eat her alive. The wool's a welfare job that used to be an income." Walker: "Sell it yourself, then. Cut out the middleman." Farmer: "Not allowed. By law it goes through the board. Has done since 1950. I can keep a fleece for the wife to knit with, and that's about the extent of my freedom." Walker: "So where does it go?" Farmer: "Washed in Bradford, if we're lucky. Shipped to China, spun, knitted, shipped back, and sold to you with a label about heritage. By the time it's in the window there are eleven people between us and I'm the only one who met the sheep." Walker: "That's mad." Farmer: "My grandfather paid the rent on the wool cheque. I pay a man to take it away. Same sheep, same hill, same jumper in the window. Only the price of the farmer went down." Walker: "What would fix it?" Farmer: "You buying the jumper. And asking them where the other £138 went."