You might think Dame Sheila Hancock would be taking life a little easy – no chance. She talks about her working-class roots, being lucky in love, the frustration of being passed over for serious roles – and why she’s fed up
with feeling anxious

These last few weeks, Sheila Hancock has surrendered. “I’m addicted, really,” she’s confessing. “I just can’t stop myself. I’m at it every night, without fail.” She halts, shakes her head, looks troubled, momentarily. “And everyone is fucking crying all the time. I can’t understand why for the life of me.” She leans forward, blue eyes piercing. Clocking my confusion, she grins wryly. “I’m talking about that television show, darling. What’s it called? No, don’t tell me. I’ll get there.”

Her old pal Gyles Brandreth, Hancock informs me, always makes her find the word she’s searching for when it escapes her. “He won’t chip in. ‘You must remember it yourself,’ he says, ‘because not doing so makes you forget.’ So I do, when forced.”