Sunday morning? My daughter comes in at 6am. She’ll be wearing a long nightdress, with her hair over her face, like a horror movie character. She gives me a cuddle and says, ‘I appreciate you, Mum.’ She’s not a teenager yet like my boys, which is probably why I like her. I’ll make a tea and then I pray, before scrolling through tabloid fodder.
A morning routine? Frying pancakes in my dressing gown before a stroll through the woods with Abdal, my husband. We walk at the same time every day, I love the familiarity; saying hello to the same dogs and people. Halfway along – opposite a retirement home – there’s a bench where we sit, looking out for deer and talking about growing old together.
How do you have fun? Ridiculous as it sounds, getting all the housework done. It’s so satisfying. If I’m downstairs doing laundry, I’ll play my Renault Clio Spotify playlist: it’s a mixture of Bollywood and noughties pop. It’s what I listened to when I started driving. Upstairs political talk radio is always on – that’s all my son’s budgie Raphe is into.
Sundays growing up… It was hectic, I’m one of six children. And we were considered a small family compared to our aunts, uncles and cousins. All weekend we’d have relatives everywhere. Today, I treasure the day being ordered and calm, though I do miss the madness.
A special Sunday? The weekend before my first TV cooking show aired in 2017, that Sunday night – waiting for the week to start – was just so exciting and daunting. I was buzzing: it was me, stepping out into the unknown, alone. This huge moment. Abdal bought a cake to celebrate – he wouldn’t let me bake one.
Sunday evening? I’ll have a maintenance bath to prepare myself for the week ahead: face scrubbed; hair washed; there’s shaving. Then I’d like to relax, but I suddenly have to share my living room with two teenagers and a PlayStation. Instead I’ll snuggle up in bed with Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s autobiography, and look through all the weird selfies my daughter has taken that day.