What time are you up? My alarm goes off at 7.30am – our family does a live show for our YouTube channel each morning. Bleary-eyed, we walk the dogs and buy the papers to review. No breakfast, though, we do the 16/8 intermittent fast, and only eat in an eight- hour window. What’s next? Mum and Dad live next door. I always cook a savoury dish and a sweet one during the YouTube show, so they’ll come over afterwards and we’ll eat while the kids are still sleeping. In the early evening, everyone comes back – my sister and my partner’s mum, too – and I do a big roast dinner and post it to Instagram. Any exercise? Yoga. I got into it during the pandemic. I used to say I hated it and would often moan about my prenatal yoga classes until my husband reminded me I never attended them. If I’m home alone, I’ll shove my headphones in and dance wildly around the kitchen. Sundays growing up? Mum’s always been a total Francophile. She’d save up these vouchers and go to France for £1 once a month to buy produce. From the age of 10, us kids would each pick a recipe and be encouraged to make it, however messy. Worst Sunday job? A paper round. Oh my God, it was awful. I had a rucksack on my back and one on each of my bike’s handlebars. The route was so long I had to be shown it by someone driving. Don’t tell the boss, but I used to stash quite a lot away in the bushes, then protest my innocence. Sunday night routine? We’re all at home, the teenagers included, so we watch something like Love Island. Then I change my HRT patch – it revolutionised my life when I started it. I slap it on and thank the Lord I have one. I’ll run a nice bath, fake tan in winter, then pluck my chin whiskers before turning LBC on. Anxiety-inducing talk radio soothes me while I’m sleeping.