All this talk of mothers has made me hungry. When I’m shooting in the UK my mum usually brings down a tupperware of food onto set knowing that the caterers won’t feed me properly. She said she’d be happy to bring some portions out to Madrid but I thought that was a bit much. We’re heading back to France though now. I reckon she could do the round trip in 12 hours.
I can honestly say, if I woke up dead tomorrow, I’d feel nothing. No fear, no regrets. My main concern is how those I leave behind will cope. I think the best thing for them would be to keep busy and throw themselves into organizing a fitting tribute. Details of which can be found on my kitchen corkboard.
When I was little, my Mum and The Man Who Brought Me Up used to call me ‘Tinker’, which I liked, but then I told a boy at primary school and that’s why I got called Stinker, Stinkerbell, Bumstink, Bumchimp, Chimperbell, Chimpstink and Stench for a few years.
They were less consistent at secondary school, so there was always a nice surprise.