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I remember one day my son, our Robert, was looking at me on the settee and looking at me on the television, and then all of a sudden he said: 'Why don't you bring that pretty mummy home with you?' And I thought: 'Oh dear, I'm going to have to dress up at home now as well!'

David Cameron was a good-looking chap in his day!

He obliged Cinderella to sit down, and, putting the slipper to her little foot, he found it went on very easily, and fitted her as if it had been made of wax.

Richard was in heavy, heavy costume, he could hardly sit, you know, and I turned up and they put me in two layers of silk, so I played him much lighter - you know, floating around in a pair of slippers, a bit of a hippy.

He looked like such a Republican. He dressed like Pee-Wee Herman. But had I known what he had done when I was reading about him, I might have thought different.

I was a little bit of a slob who was sort of surrounded by dirty laundry. I can trace the exact moment that I became a tidy human being, and that moment was the day my son Sam was born.

He was white and shaken, like a dry martini.

When he was a little kid, he was a fat, spoiled kid. I can tell the type.

Maggie went out of doors to wash the windows and father came out into the kitchen and said he did not know whether he would go down to the post office or not. And then I sprinkled some handkerchiefs to iron.

One of my most vivid memories of the mid-1950s is of crying into a washbasin full of soapy grey baby clothes - there were no washing machines - while my handsome and adored husband was off playing football in the park on Sunday morning with all the delightful young men who had been friends to both of us at Cambridge three years earlier.