In my early days of transitioning, I used to come to London and meet for a drink with a group going through the same thing. I used to wear a full wig, and one night I’d drunk too much and fell asleep on the train, and my wig slipped off.

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.

Helen Mirren was in the elevator with me at the National Theatre. She pressed the button but it didn’t move. I said, “Fancy seeing you here and being stuck in an elevator.” And she said, “Was that meant to be funny?” I apologised, and she laughed. Even talking about it now, it feels so awkward and embarrassing.

Holding the hand of some random lady at an airport who I mistook for my wife, Shara.

When I was a teenager, I worked in a vegetable shop on Saturdays, and the guy had a rotation of 10 pretty teenagers working for him and was really sleazy. I only went twice because the second time he made me go up to his flat above the shop and clean his toilet, and he was watching me.

My problem with clothes. I’ve got an issue, haven’t I? I’m not a fella in a band who can turn up in his T-shirt and jeans. I’ve got the whole drama of what I’m going to wear: the hair, the makeup. All that preening and pruning that adds to the stress. I have begun to hate that perfectionist in me.

The fact that I smoke.

My car. I don’t even drive, but I bought a Toyota hybrid for my assistant.

Last week, because of an ear infection: I cried my eyes out when they put a big injection into my arse.