Helena Bonham Carter is a scream. She wanders into the hotel restaurant looking like a goth Frida Kahlo, in a voluminous black skirt and trainers, a magpie’s nest of ribbons and trinkets peeking out of her barnet.

“Are you happy with this place? ” she asks, gesturing around the room with her chipped red nails. “I always like coming here because …” she suddenly breaks off mid-sentence, looking bewildered. “Sorry, no, don’t know where I was going with that. I’ve never been here in my life before.” And she dissolves into wheezy laughter, as if possessed by Muttley from Wacky Races.

“Shall we summon? I’ll practise Margaret,” she says, dispatching a royal wave in the direction of the waiting staff. “Could we have another menu,