Being a cocktail waitress and having to wear a compromising dress in an unwoke 1990s world.

Leafleting for a window company when I was 12. I remember putting them through letterboxes thinking: I’m going to sell drugs, because this is rubbish.

I worked at KFC, as a vegetarian, doing Friday and Saturday nights.

I had to clean up the sump pump [toilet system] in my house because my sister and I flushed things we shouldn’t have.

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.

Last week, because of an ear infection: I cried my eyes out when they put a big injection into my arse.

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