I have a deep-rooted fear of being in trouble. I once tried to sneak into the back of a photography exhibition with my husband when one of our kids was in a pushchair. We’d arrived late and he suggested we go in through the gift shop and see the last room. As we poked our heads round the door, the security guard noticed us. I shouted, “That man’s trying to get in!”, then ran away.

Sending a text meant for my wife to Dara O'Briain by mistake, revealing myself to be a control freak.

Years ago in a safari park in South Africa, and getting all dressed up for dinner. Walking across the lawn, I didn’t realise there was a swimming pool that hadn’t been lit and walked straight into the shallow end fully clothed. It still haunts me. I remember trying to get out as if no one would notice.

Having somebody pull my judo trousers down at a competition when I was seven. And finding I wasn’t wearing any pants.

“What is Seann Walsh and how do we make it die?” It was online, thankfully. It wasn’t in Sainsbury’s.

Outside my very close-knit group of friends, socially I’m terrible.

A house in west London.

Certainty. I also can’t stand it when someone calls you and then says, “Wait, I need to put my headphones in.”

Enthusiastic, chaotic, bungling.

I got sacked from TK Maxx for falling asleep under the coats.