Sunday morning… Could be anywhere. My schedule is irregular. I might be in another country, at home in London, or in the tiny house outside Stevenage where I write and look at cows. I love living out of a suitcase, the thrill of not knowing where the bathroom is in the middle of the night. How do you relax? I meditate every morning, otherwise my mind is flooded: it doesn’t clear my head, but it helps. After that, I don’t like to be alone doing nothing. I’ll see a friend, ride my bike into the city to aimlessly stare at buildings, or kayak along the canal. If you could be anywhere next Sunday? South Africa: I have a little house in Cape Town where I used to spend a lot of time, volunteering, or on days off I walk into the mountains. I wouldn’t go too high – I’m not a great walker – and much prefer the ascent to coming down. Sundays growing up? Home was chaotic, so all days were equally awful. I don’t remember thinking, ‘Oh good, finally the weekend has come.’ Sunday lunch? When I married Ed, my husband, I was introduced to Sunday lunches. We’d sit and eat with the kids and I’d think: oh this is what normal is. I even learned how to make potatoes, although I’ve forgotten now. During lockdown? I found myself writing constantly. Every night during the week except Sunday I ran Frazzled Cafe, where hundreds of people came together and told me what was going on in their lives. On Sunday nights I wrote up a journal, which I’ve turned into a workbook to help readers with what comes next. And Sunday night… Ed orders a Chinese takeout and all the kids come over, which feels reassuringly normal, although I often miss out as I’m away. I’m basically like a child who went off to university and never quite came back. I just don’t like conformity, although I really wish I did.