There was a very large part of my 20s where I was an alcoholic, and an addict. When I lost my dad to cirrhosis, I knew that the only difference between us was that, tragically, he couldn’t stop whereas I could.

I would be richer, I’d have beaten Mrs Thatcher’s ban on women in the cabinet, and I would be a dame.

I would not leave my teenage children to follow an unworthy love. It lasted a month and scarred the family for ever.

I’d give my younger self the lessons I’ve learned over the years, sparing myself the need to figure everything out so publicly.

Slightly longer arms.

Not being chosen as the next Bond.

My parents, for not pursuing an academic career.

Telesales. I refused to wear a tie, but my argument that “They can’t see what we’re wearing” didn’t wash with the manager and I lasted a week.

Aung San Suu Kyi, for her resilience and determination.

Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads. When I first heard it at 15, it was different to all the punk I was listening to. When I was starting out in my career, it was all about: ‘How is this possible? How am I doing this?’ Now it’s: ‘Is this my life? How did I get here?’ The lyrics are all about returning full to nature. That’s how I imagine death to be. So that’s what I want at my funeral. And they’ll play Combine Harvester by the Wurzels as people are leaving the church.