There was a period when I did four or five terrible films. My agent said: “Don’t do them.” But it was my month’s rent for a day’s work. One time, my green room was a lorry. It started snowing and it was just me and a plastic chair in the back of an open lorry. It was pretty grim.

Working as the assistant to an agony aunt on a women’s magazine. When we didn’t get enough heartbreaking letters, we made them up.

Filming a TV show in a field in the snow in February in the Dublin hills for 14 hours; the director said, “We’re not going to get that shot today.”

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.

As devastatingly talented, gorgeous and wise, but I’m not betting on it.

A chihuahua giving you a cuddle.

My daughter talking to her friends even though I thought I’d disabled her devices.

I’ve dodged a couple of bullets in dodgy war zones, but I suspect the closest I’ve come to death was a reckless, drunken brush with a waltzer at a student funfair. It nearly chopped me in half.

I’d have been there on the spot for every major news story I’ve talked about in the studio, at the time it happened.

Every offended interviewee who thought I was asking hard questions for some personal reason. It’s never personal.