My stepmother died a few years ago but I didn’t make that last hour to have a conversation with her, so I’d like to say sorry for that.

Martin Scorsese. I was, let’s say, slightly tactile with him during a Q&A; I was more nervous than I’ve been about anything. I kept tapping his knee, it might even have been bruised by the end.

My kids, for not being around much.

Everyone I ever met in 2007, because I was definitely about two hours late.

Funny, annoying and kind.

Oversensitivity.

I was a waitress at a holiday camp. On a Wednesday afternoon all the guys used to pee into the rice pudding and we had to serve it to the customers.

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.

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.

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?”