Eight or nine years ago, I disgraced myself in the Japanese ambassador’s home in Dublin, at a celebration for my late mother-in-law’s book about living in Japan. Afterwards, when I had to apologise, she told me it was the worst night of her life and, because I was drunk enough not to remember the details, it will never not be the most embarrassing night of my life. People are filling in details even now – “Remember when you fell under the table during the first course?”

That time I congratulated a waitress on being pregnant.

Congratulating Dua Lipa on managing to release a single in such a tough industry, because I thought she was a struggling indie artist. I Googled her the next day and realised that she has 88 million followers.

One time I got so drunk in the Soho theatre in London that I fell asleep in the disabled toilet for two hours. People still call the toilet Rosie’s Bedroom.

The people I hurt when I was suffering with addiction to alcohol and cocaine.

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

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.

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.

Oversensitivity.

Funny, annoying and kind.