Oh, yes, absolutely. I have two children, and often I think about them and how when I’m gone, they will be here listening to an old CD of mine, thinking, “At least I can I can hear her voice.” I think this is very charming. It’s very nice. And then, of course, I also think about the other generations of opera singers coming behind me… It’s so important that they can have a real testimony of how it was in our ears. I think that what stands the test of time is really the memory of people hearing us singing somewhere.

Other people can decide.

A loving father and wonderful husband, and the best actor of my generation!

It’s here. I’ve always thought that it was here. If you play to the gallery, that’s posterity. The best you can hope for is another gallery after you’ve gone, but you won’t see it. Statistically, it’s unlikely that much of what one does will be read for ever. It may just be one or two poems. For example, my Japanese Maple poem is famous among people who own a Japanese maple.

When I was younger, I appeared in the Halifax adverts that featured a cake or a bridge made of hundreds of people. You stood there for three days and were not even really seen.

My mother: she’s an inspiration. She went back to college in her 40s, started karate and became a black belt.

When I was seven or eight, I got run over and was actually under the car, which was scary. I just ran out; it was totally my fault. I was fine – all I got was a tiny scar on my knee.

An English teacher, and then a dance teacher.

I would edit my worry, because I suffer from anxiety, which ruins some moments.

I am a good sleeper.