I’d like to say sorry to my mother. I had to choose between my parents, and I chose my father because he didn’t have any other kids. (My mother was a war widow and had two children from her first marriage.) I thought, in a childish way, that one had to be fair. It was very difficult for my mother and me, and we never really got over it.

I wish I could say sorry to my husband, because I couldn’t save him from his dementia.

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.

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.

One night in Cats, I missed my footing and nearly plunged more than 30ft. As if by magic, the stage manager’s hand appeared and winched me from certain death.

Maybe That’s Your Problem, a musical about premature ejaculation. It closed after only 18 performances.

Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. And my headstone should read: “Game, set and match.”

I’m happy: I have a wonderful career and great friends.

The Queen. Long may she reign.

To be working still.