Wake-up time? I’d naturally wake at 10am given half a chance. But my seven-year-old daughter trips into our room at 7ish and lifts me out of my inky slumber by whispering, ‘Can I watch TV?’ I say, ‘Go do it, babes!’ and try to get back to sleep. Breakfast? Because he’s a legend, my husband makes my daughter banana oat pancakes, which are her favourite. I sip coffee and eat a very charred piece of toast with butter and Marmite. I like it so burnt I often set off our smoke alarm, which annoys the cat. What’s on the radio? Radio 4 was the constant soundtrack to my childhood. I’d ask my mum: ‘How do you know which thoughts are yours and which are Radio 4’s?’ I have it on, too, but my daughter will inevitably re-tune to Magic or something she considers to be better value. Sunday lunch? I’m Iranian, so we often go to a Persian restaurant. We gather friends and family and eat heaps of buttery rice with bread, stew and chicken. We waddle out with takeaway boxes as we’ve over-ordered. Sunday evening? I’m partial to a vodka tonic and salty snacks. Then I’ll get that sinking feeling about the lines I haven’t learned. I’ll have a bath with a splash of Neal’s Yard tea tree oil. Annoyingly, we’ve changed all the lights at home for long-life bulbs and now the bathroom depresses me. It’s gone from soothing to slightly hospital-y. Bedtime routine? Ever since school, I’ve had Sunday night dread. That haven’t-done-my-homework anxiety. So I’ll chill with my thoughts for a bit, then listen to a comforting Audible book. Miriam Margolyes’s memoir is one of the best. I eventually nod off around midnight. Most memorable Sunday? Last year’s Baftas. I was nominated for I Hate Suzie and we did it via videolink. They sent round hair and makeup people, who put glitter on my daughter’s cheeks as well. I sat on the sofa, dressed up to the nines with crazy jewellery on. Mum was there, too. She wasn’t thrilled about me becoming an actor rather than a lawyer, but that night, she was OK with it.