I have a Stratocaster, which is part of my long, doomed ambition to become Jimi Hendrix.

A Savile Row suit. Never again. Although I love it, I still feel guilty about what it cost.

I took the whole family to live in the Basque Country for a year. My children and I have a hereditary blood condition so I took out a health insurance policy. I’m still furious that none of us so much as stubbed a toe.

I saw a very expensive painting by a wonderful American painter called Charles Burchfield. I really loved it – it hit me in the solar plexus – and I thought if I did three extra concerts on tour, I might be able to afford it. And I did.

Acting, when you don’t want to do it or you disagree with everything, is almost like having sex with someone you don’t like. I had one experience like that on stage, in a terrible version of The Cherry Orchard. I put on a wig, dark-coloured contacts and just hoped no one would recognise me.

When I had a bicycle accident when I was 24. I was on a bridge going down; the bicycle broke and I smashed to the ground, face first. I broke my jaw and my teeth, and had to have plastic surgery. It all took half a year and then, funnily enough, I got my first big job – a TV series – with what I thought of then as this big, ugly scar.

Warm and bubbly.

Now. During the period of Covid, I have had the opportunity to rethink and I’ve got a new gift of cherishing now.

My vain side would like to be remembered as someone who did good for others in some way. But I would be happy if my children remembered me.