All the things that seem very unimportant and manageable the next morning.

Did I behave in the right way?

My solution has been to scroll through my life, my thoughts, my fantasies, my memories, mis-memories, and the like until I have chanced upon events, people, or narratives that I can employ to divert my mind from the body in which it is encased. These mental exercises have to be interesting enough to hold my attention and see me through an intolerable itch in my inner ear or lower back; but they also have to be boring and predictable enough to serve as a reliable prelude and encouragement to sleep. It took me some time to identify this process as a workable alternative to insomnia and physical discomfort and it is by no means infallible. But I am occasionally astonished, when I reflect upon the matter, at how readily I seem to get through, night after night, week after week, month after month, what was once an almost insufferable nocturnal ordeal. I wake up in exactly the position, frame of mind, and state of suspended despair with which I went to bed—which in the circumstances might be thought a considerable achievement.

The perimenopause.

Genuinely – and my wife, Lee, knows this – dancing with Kevin Clifton on Strictly.

A Tiffany watch for my wife. The security guard was following us, so I deliberately bought a really expensive watch to prove we had money. I don’t think I’ve seen her wear it.

On the back of an angry Icelandic pony when I was filming a show called Spending Dave’s Money with Phil Tufnell.

Not giving up comedy, because it took six or seven years before I started earning a living.

That I’m still having the same discussions about women in comedy as I was having 12 years ago. Are we funny? Will anyone watch us? Can I have my own sitcom?