I was in Kensington Gardens and this couple stopped me and said: “Hey, could we get a picture? I said: “Sure.” I put my arms around their shoulders, and they looked at me and said: “No, can you take a picture of us?”

Passing wind on camera. I was doing a rather large movie and it was a closeup.

Shitting myself in New York last November. I was wearing cream trousers. We were going to see my son Matty and his band, the 1975, at Madison Square Garden, and I was walking through the streets, enjoying the sunshine, pretending I was in some kind of video – throwing my hat into the New York sky like Mary Tyler Moore. I saw a couple of people turn and look at me. Now, although I’m not famous in New York, whenever Matty’s there I do get recognised as his mum, so I’m smiling and waving at them. I went back to the hotel room and bent over to get something out of the suitcase, and my husband said: “Do you realise you’ve shat yourself?”

Being misrepresented by a Sun journalist 12 years ago.

I’m so tempted to answer serial killer.

Through a series of mistakes in write-ups, I’d like to be remembered for something like being Britain’s finest downhill skier or inventing pickled onions.

Should talk less.

Younger people being amazed that I know what song they’re listening to.

At 16, I thought I’d be part of transforming the world into a socialist egalitarian arena of peace and justice. I’m not sure we’ve quite managed it.

When I had cancer. I was having a shave and thought: “Are you meant to have a big hard lump on one side of your neck?”