I can't cook. I don't have the right brain for it, somehow. I can't walk into a room and tidy it up. I get distracted. I pick up one thing and I start looking at it. And my cooking is truly heinous.

Lover? I don't know. I don't know if she loves me. I don't know if I love her. All I can say is, she's the one I think about. All the time. She's the voice I want to hear. She's the face I hope to see.

Becky! Love!" Mum has pushed her way through her dancing guests to reach me. "What's wrong? Has labor started?" Honestly. My family has no idea about contemporary urban street dance trends.

I'm never going to believe a Poirot mystery again. Never. All those witnesses going, "Yes, I remember it was 3:06 p.m. exactly, because I glanced at the clock as I reached for the sugar tongs, and Lady Favisham was quite clearly sitting on the right-hand side of the fireplace." Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Favisham was, they just don't want to admit it in front of Poirot. I'm amazed he gets anywhere.

Don't beat yourself up for not knowing the answers. You don't always have to know who you are. You don't have to have the big picture, or know where you're heading. Sometimes, it's enough just to know what you're going to do next.

Relationships are all about trust and equality. If one person shares, then the other person should share, too.

If it's in the bin, it's public property.