I cry a lot, every day.

I cry all the time. The last time was at the end of Paddington 2. Shirlie was laughing her head off.

Couple of days ago, reading a thank-you note my parents had left after we celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary in Wyoming.

I cry all the time. I like crying: it means that you’re more truly aware of a circumstance or a person or an event.

When I was a teenager, I worked in a vegetable shop on Saturdays, and the guy had a rotation of 10 pretty teenagers working for him and was really sleazy. I only went twice because the second time he made me go up to his flat above the shop and clean his toilet, and he was watching me.

My car. I don’t even drive, but I bought a Toyota hybrid for my assistant.

The fact that I smoke.

My problem with clothes. I’ve got an issue, haven’t I? I’m not a fella in a band who can turn up in his T-shirt and jeans. I’ve got the whole drama of what I’m going to wear: the hair, the makeup. All that preening and pruning that adds to the stress. I have begun to hate that perfectionist in me.

I recently had a dramatic fall on stage in Hungary. It was a massive stage – I was miles away from the audience – and I didn’t expect there to be two monitors in the middle of it. I went completely arse over tit and landed on my chin. First, I felt shock, pain, embarrassment, and then I felt lucky that I didn’t break any teeth or bite through my tongue. I asked for an ice pack for my chin, got up and finished the set.