When I concentrate, I put my thumb in my mouth. I once did it during a really important meeting when asked a question I didn’t know the answer to. When I left the meeting my friend said: “What did you put your thumb in your mouth for?” I didn’t know I’d done it.

I once found myself chatting to a big handsome bloke at a party in Oslo. I said, “And what do you do?” “Well,” he said, “I am the king.” Being a great wordsmith, I zinged back, “Oh. Errm. Cool.”

At the TV Baftas last year I was wearing these heels that had stiff bows on the front. One heel locked into the other bow and I went arse over tit.

I did an interview years ago and, after it finished, I made some passing comment about sex getting better as you get older – and they used that as the headline. The day the paper came out, I was in a restaurant with the family when a woman on the table next to me leaned over and said, in a sultry voice, “I read your article this morning.”

I got sacked from TK Maxx for falling asleep under the coats.

When I was about two, I accidentally knocked a boiled kettle on myself. I am scarred, in many ways, from that.

That I’m going to start commenting “Wow” under AI images I think are real.

Enthusiastic, chaotic, bungling.

Outside my very close-knit group of friends, socially I’m terrible.

A house in west London.