I’ve never had a job.

Gary and I worked in a greengrocer’s on Saturdays and in the holidays. One of my jobs was cooking beetroot – it used to make me gag.

Standing outside a pub in Acton on a freezing February day in a threadbare overcoat doing market research.

Delivering papers in the freezing cold for my granny. I got paid in Panini football stickers, so it wasn’t all bad.

In my professional life, the musical Chess on Broadway. It was a resounding fiasco and played for two months. The butcher of Broadway, Frank Rich of the New York Times, was probably very pleased: I’ve never seen such a bad review in my life.

It’s a calm and secure feeling of deep loyalty.

My surname. You have no idea how many versions I’ve read and heard. It was especially irritating during my Abba years. You can imagine someone calling our hotel and saying: “I’d like to speak to one of the guys in Abba.” Who do you think the receptionist called, Andersson or Ulvaeus?

If it wasn’t for coronavirus, it would be right now. All my life I’ve felt a pressure to achieve. It’s gone now, and that gives me a sense of freedom. Whenever I, for short moments, forget about corona and climate change, I’m happy.

Nothing, really. But without little sleeping pills, I’d go crazy.

Successful like my two uncles, who were paper industry magnates.