A boy called Norman. When I came to England, I didn’t know what kiss-chase was, and Norman kissed me on the lips, so I gave him a black eye.

Teachers at my school, for being such a smartarse.

To my grandma Faye, because I didn’t realise, when I was growing up, what an icon she was. She fought at Cable Street, and worked her arse off to get the family out of the tenements. She had a lot of wisdom to impart.

Katy Perry. I hired a Russell Brand lookalike as a joke for the radio, and she thought it was actually him. When she realised it wasn’t, she burst into tears. She was still married to him, but I didn’t take into account that there were things going on that we didn’t know.

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?”

Oversensitivity.

My husband, Lincoln, for getting sober with me. He turned his own life around to turn mine around. We didn’t do AA, we anchored each other.

Stopping being such a helicopter parent and worrying about these grownup children’s lives. It drives me mad. And I am having therapy. If I could stop thinking that I should be their first port of call for everything, it would free my head up a bit.

Funny, annoying and kind.

Now, because of my marriage and because since September 2019 I’ve been free of clinical depression.