I have a husband who literally worships me. And cleans the house. And blow-dries my daughter's hair.

I find a lot of things kind of funny and I often say what's on my mind, and then get nine texts from all my friends going, 'What's the matter with you?' But I haven't ever made a big attempt to have any particular image. And I don't really worry about it. If it's funny, I don't care.

I try and take lots of vitamins and I don't drink. I do smoke, though, I'd be insufferable if I didn't smoke, you'd have to push me off a balcony I'd be so boring.

I sort of ended up in Los Angeles by accident. And it was sort of terrible to be jostled into this position of a fame-hungry starlet. Which is so honestly not me! In fact, I could use a bit more of that because I am such a hermit! So I allowed myself to get really bothered.

Feeling attractive didn't come until I was 29... What is it about a woman being in her late 30s that brings out the "Oh, my gosh, are you worried?" questions? Worried? What about? Thirty-eight, 39, 40, 50! Great! Still alive!

I always felt that anorexia was the form of breakdown most readily available to adolescent girls.

This is what's sick about living in L.A. My eight-year-old daughter will point to a woman and say, 'Look! That woman's had too much Botox.' She spots them because they all look a bit like Lord Voldemort from 'Harry Potter.'