‘It’s just so weird, having children,” says Bill Nighy. “The whole thing is like science fiction. Human beings make decisions and have ideas and choose their partner and it’s all so reckless and marvellous. It’s such an extraordinary thing to attempt. Maybe it’s just my age, but I just think of all the energy involved to have and raise children, you know?”
I hear him gliding down the street, phone in hand, offering some sort of gorgeous apology to a cafe door. “And then there’s this human being who turns out to be somebody quite independently of whoever might have been involved in their creation. They’re this completely other thing. And they’re also, in the case of my grandchildren, edible.”
