To be stuck in the past.

The same thing Molly Weasley saw when she let a Boggart out of the locked cabinet in ‘Order of the Phoenix’ – my loved ones, dead. If, however, you are talking about a fear that concerns only me, it would be being buried alive. I’m not sure how a Boggart would represent that; perhaps turn into a coffin around me? Urgh.

Drowning. The feeling of not being able to take a breath. I’m sure my therapist would have something to say about the deep psychological reasons for it.

Being stuck in a project that’s not challenging me, or true to my nature.

Thinking I’ve upset somebody.

Thinking that I’m right when I’m wrong. But not only that – being able to convince other people I’m right and then finding out I’m wrong.

Lovely but useless.

I remember going to my auntie Pauline’s house in winter when I was eight or nine and she made me a roast beef sandwich. I ate it and fell asleep next to a fire. I felt like a cat, fed and left to nap.

I worked with Stephen Fry recently and we had a real heart-to-heart. I asked: “What was it like being in prison for being gay?” And thank God someone came in and he didn’t hear me say it. I was mixing him up with when he played Oscar Wilde. I could picture him in his cell.

Some man in the street stopped me and said: “If you were a few inches taller you’d be dangerous.” I’ve no idea what he meant.