I had to choreograph dancing cows for a commercial. I had to superimpose footage of dancing legs – some were mine – on to the cow. It was bonkers.

That would have to be a film called Pickup On 101. It was a very interesting story, about a wandering musician and an old guy on his way back to his home town to spend his last days, but they made it into a pile of dishonest trash.

I was the PE technician at my old secondary school, so I had to pump up all the balls, wash all the kits and get the form notes in before morning registration every day.

Handing out leaflets for a dry cleaner’s, because no one wanted them and, if people did take them, they just threw them on the floor.

I’ve always been frightened of the dark. I sometimes wonder whether it stems from being away filming from the age of five. I can remember being devastatingly homesick and having a little nightlight I used to look at to reassure myself things were all right.

If my children remember me as fondly as I remember my mum, that would be a treat.

Minding not being liked.

The early family skiing holidays – before I’d broken an ankle and Gerald had torn a ligament – were just wonderful.

When I was a teenager, I laughed at a joke I didn’t understand. Whoever told the joke turned to me and said, “What are you laughing at?” Of course I didn’t know and he obviously knew I didn’t know. It was excruciating.

Not to take anything for granted.