When I think of masculinity it reminds me of naturism – the practice of wandering around with no clothes on. Yes, that’s a weird connection but let me explain.

A few years ago I was in a movie called Confetti where I played a nudist. To prepare for my part (yes, all right) I spent some time hanging out (oh, stop) with the residents of a naturist club. Most of these friendly people were a fair bit older than me – in their sixties and seventies – and they told me their stories, often stories of damage: a divorce here, a brush with cancer there; breakdown, redundancy, bereavement. Internal injuries were borne with the same acceptance as the outward lines and scars earned by their bodies.

Sexy it was not. But it was moving, and if I’d had my writer’s hat on, very useful. Unfortunately, I was wearing my actor’s hat (if not my actor’s trousers) and what I heard was absolutely no use at all.

Why? Because ‘being naked’ is not a character. It’s not an action or a worldview. Ultimately, naturism is just the absence of clothes: my problem in Confetti was that I let the character be defined by something he didn’t do. There was nothing to wear, but also nothing to play.