“I was very much ready to depart,” says Vicky Knight halfway through our conversation. She doesn’t mean on the 8.23 from Liverpool Street; Knight is talking about shuffling herself off this mortal coil, such was the desperate state of her mental health only a few years ago.
Sharing a sofa at the British Film Institute, listening to her chat away breezily in shiny street-sport gear, it’s hard to compute this shockingly frank revelation from someone who is still just 28, unless you know something of Knight’s backstory (which we’ll come to).
