The celebrated actor had a turbulent upbringing before becoming world-famous for playing two perfect nannies. Now she’s bonding with a new generation of children through her storytelling podcast

“I’ll tell you what, shall I go outside?” Julie Andrews asks. We are talking by phone, but, alas, the reception inside her home on Long Island is, she says, “always terrible”. Torturous minutes pass in which I can hear only fragments of her conversation, and if anyone knows of a sweeter agony than being barely able to hear Andrews’ still lovely, melodious voice, I don’t want to know what it is. Eventually, I have to tell her this phone conversation isn’t working.

“I can stand out in my garden, although it is a bit nippy …” Andrews suggests.

A teenager bonds awkwardly with her cousin as they take the bus from a rural community to New York so that she can have a termination

The four words in this title are the four possible replies to bureaucratic tick-box questions about the frequency of your various sexual experiences. A young woman here must answer them, before she is allowed to have an abortion. However rigid and blandly routine it seems, the four-part answer grid is cleverly designed to get information about vulnerability: it is so easy instinctively and evasively to deny a difficult question structured as a yes/no, but much harder to check the “never” box, when “rarely”, “sometimes” and “always” are coolly offered as equivalently non-judgmental options.

The lead character in Eliza Hittman’s tough, realist drama is confronted with this central, four-part inquisition about her life in one brilliantly controlled, enigmatic scene. Theoretically, it is just a bit of form-filling that doesn’t appear to promise any real revelation to the audience. Yet it does just that, delivering a penny-drop moment of realisation. Or perhaps it’s more of an ambiguous hint and all the more disquieting for that.

Related: Sleazy bosses, exploited barmaids: US cinema finally discovers the left behinds

Coronavirus prompted an emergency operation to house rough sleepers in Travelodges and Holiday Inns. In many ways it has been a success – but what happens next?

To begin with, Clare Sutcliffe found the shift from sleeping in a doorway in Soho to a king-size bed in a central-London hotel very disorientating. After 15 months sleeping rough, she found it hard to relax and really believe she was in a safe space.

“The first couple of nights, I couldn’t sleep with the light off,” she says. “This might sound mad, but I was a bit scared. It was different; when you’re used to sleeping out in the open outside and then all of a sudden you’re in a bed, in a room, with a door that shuts.” When she arrived at the hotel five weeks ago, she was a skeletal six-and-a-half stone; since then, with three meals delivered to her room every day, her health has begun to improve.

For his latest drama, Corneliu Porumboiu revived a language unique to the valleys of La Gomera in the Canary Islands; a steep learning curve for his actors – and our writer

Try to imagine the least film-noir scene possible and you might come up with a group of five-year-olds learning to whistle. It is late morning, pre-lockdown, in a classroom at Nereida Díaz Abreu school on La Gomera in the Canary Islands, and the teacher – a bent knuckle crammed in his mouth – is relaying instructions in a piercing, swooping, set of whistles. The kids look quizzically skywards, then collapse in hysterics, although most eventually nail it.

“Touch your left ear with your right hand,” the teacher reiterates in Spanish.

Related: The Whistlers (La Gomera) review – thrilling Romanian corrupt-cop noir

We say to the kids: when you go to Tenerife and say you’re from La Gomera, people will ask you if you can whistle

Vinnie and the gang decide to rob a circus, as Joseph Gilgun’s hit comedy – part-Shameless, part-Ocean’s Eleven – returns for a second run

At first glance, Brassic (Sky One) looks as if it might have been the first quarantine comedy. The second series begins with Vinnie (Joseph Gilgun) skulking around the fictional Lancashire town of Hawley in full DIY hazmat get-up, with his hood up over a hat, a scarf pulled over his face, and sunglasses, despite the weather being a near-permanent state of grey drizzle. It even goes a bit Tiger King, when a robbery takes an unexpected feline turn.

But Brassic is only accidentally of the moment: there’s far too much non-social-distancing going on, for a start. It was filmed last year, while the first series was airing, and it became Sky’s biggest original comedy in years. That’s no surprise. It had an easy appeal and a raucous sense of humour, with real heart behind the madcap antics.

Her freaky, filthy tracks frequently break the internet – most recently with a guest spot from Beyoncé – but the Houston rapper won’t let the internet break her

• ‘We do what we want, for ourselves’: why it’s a golden age for women in rap

Given that her lyrical prowess has made her one of the hottest rappers in the US, it’s hardly surprising that Megan Thee Stallion is good at anecdotes. We’re talking over Zoom – Megan looking impeccably high-glam, worthy of a Real Housewives reunion – as she regales me with how she ended up recording a remix with her idol.

“I got a call: Beyoncé wants to do a remix to Savage,” she says, shaking her head with disbelief. “And I was like ... what? Shut up. Shut up. You’re lying. Beyoncé don’t want to get on nothing with me. Come on, it’s me! I know I’m Megan Thee Stallion, but dang!”

I can’t be mad at the next girl for wanting to be the best. Why can't we both agree that we bad?

Coming live from Melbourne, London and Huddersfield, the Last Leg presents its take on the week’s events. Plus: VE Day 75: An Evening Celebration

The lighthearted TV responses to lockdown have been abundant so far, from video-linked episodes of Have I Got News For You to Matt Lucas’s sketches and Grayson Perry’s Art Club. Yet, none have quite managed to capture the mix of anxiety, uncertainty and unexpected humour many of us have been experiencing – which is where the Last Leg comics come in. Live from Melbourne, London and Huddersfield, the trio will present their typically incisive take on the week’s events. Ammar Kalia

People who love boozers always said it was the atmosphere, not the alcohol, that attracted them. The lockdown has proved us right

Some forgotten heroes – or mistreated victims, if you prefer – of the coronavirus outbreak are pubs. People who love pubs always said it was the atmosphere, not the alcohol, and people who didn’t love them thought we were just spinning them a line. Now we have proof, because we are drinking as much as we ever did and yet we complain almost constantly.

That debate has ended, anyway, because the people who miss pubs now talk only to each other. We start off complaining about the pub, then segue, almost shyly, into: “Are you managing to drink quite a lot?” “Jesus Christ, you should see the state of my recycling bin. It only got collected two days ago. Today I had to climb into it to compress the cans with my body weight.” “I actually can’t carry as much beer as I want to drink,” said one friend. “One night, I ended up buying a bottle of gin.”

Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist