Sunday morning… Starts in my own bed at home, or else I’m in serious trouble. Gone are the days when I’d wake up with a daze in some unknown location. I’ve no reason to get up, so will only do so once I’m hungry. But not before I’ve bathed. I can’t eat dirty. Do you work? I never really had weekends before Covid. I was always touring and gigging. I miss the adrenaline of standing in the wings not knowing what might happen. Now I carve Sunday out to stay away from my writing desk, and it turns out that’s quite pleasant. How do you relax? I try to paint and do crafts. As I get older, I seem to be becoming a hobby-er. I always said I’d need to be in a straitjacket before I started to do jigsaws. Now I’ve not eaten at the dining table for a year, because it’s covered in pieces of puzzle. Sundays growing up? My parents weren’t religious, but they sent us to Sunday school regardless. I’ve no idea why, they must have just wanted rid of us. As a teenager I was incredibly selfish: my nan might have been round for a roast, but I wanted to be out snogging boys and smoking. Any exercise? I tried doing couch to 5k on that app, but gave it up on moral grounds because I simply can’t stand pavement-clogging joggers. That’s my excuse, although I’m really just a fat lazy cow. If I’d persevered, I might now be able to run without vomiting. What do you miss during lockdown? Going to galleries: nature’s all well and good, but I’d much rather be getting my step count up in Tate Britain. And having my daughter within groping distance: to grab her cheek or squeeze her hand. I want to feed her Sunday-night fish pie while she sits on my knee, although she’s 32 and never lets me.