I’m president of my neighbourhood association. At my first meeting there was a discussion about developments the association should oppose. I said: “Nothing could be as bad as that horrible new house next to the church.” “I designed that,” the chairman replied. I shut up.

I don’t get embarrassed.

When I was appointed director of public prosecutions, I had a government car and visited the security services. When I came out, I got into the back of what I thought was my car, but it was somebody’s private car and they told me in no uncertain terms to get out. I had to reverse out with as much dignity as I could, with the head of security services watching.

When I was doing a masterclass at a theatre and I had to leave the stage because I was about to shit my pants.

All my clothes are secondhand, but I did buy a pair of new silver Vivienne Westwood shoes to get married in, which I still have.

Last summer, swimming in a waterfall in Cumbria with my daughters.

Effervescence in the soul.

“You’ll never walk again.” This was when I was eight or nine and recovering from viral encephalitis.

Interrupting or talking over people. As a stammerer, I am particularly alert to this.

To keep going and never give up, and to enjoy it to the absolute full because, at any moment, the curtain can fall.