I worked in a cafe, which I loved, but when it was quiet we had to scrape the fat out from between the tiles on the floor with a butter knife.

When I was 19, I washed up in the basement of a Paris restaurant that stank of rotted food. I did it for six months, until I was promoted to vegetable boy.

For two weeks I worked behind the players’ bar at Bolton Wanderers football club – footballers don’t tip.

When I was a teenager, I worked in a vegetable shop on Saturdays, and the guy had a rotation of 10 pretty teenagers working for him and was really sleazy. I only went twice because the second time he made me go up to his flat above the shop and clean his toilet, and he was watching me.

I’ve dodged a couple of bullets in dodgy war zones, but I suspect the closest I’ve come to death was a reckless, drunken brush with a waltzer at a student funfair. It nearly chopped me in half.

I’d have been there on the spot for every major news story I’ve talked about in the studio, at the time it happened.

My daughter talking to her friends even though I thought I’d disabled her devices.

Every offended interviewee who thought I was asking hard questions for some personal reason. It’s never personal.

As devastatingly talented, gorgeous and wise, but I’m not betting on it.

A chihuahua giving you a cuddle.