My parents. We didn’t realise how absolutely desperate they were when we left Germany, because my father couldn’t earn anything. A letter turned up fairly recently in which he said, “We’ve been through a terrible time because Julia [my mother] never stopped talking about suicide and not just for herself, but to take the children with her.”

When I was 17 I launched into a rant at my dad about what I thought of him. We never spoke about it again and then he passed away. I would love to say sorry to him.

To a resistant materials teacher at secondary school called Mr Noel. He had a comb-over and whenever he turned his back to write on the blackboard, we would roll up bits of paper and launch them at his head. Once, I hit him. I remember him turning around and looking crestfallen.

To my dad for not making it back to Birmingham to see him while I was in London doing The Streets.

An English teacher, and then a dance teacher.

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.

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

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

I am a good sleeper.

Magical, warm, but also butterflies.