Up early or lie-in? I’m either up early because Céline Dion, my three-year-old English bull terrier, needs a poo when I hit that perfect sleep point. Or my husband and I are awake because we’ve been out all night clubbing. Saturday night? We’ll spend it somewhere very queer, very trans, very slay, like Dalston Superstore in east London. We got married last year and had our big wedding party at The Glory. Might you be performing? I used to perform as Crystal. I did drag for 10 years, so I’d spend my Sundays trying to get the zings of adrenaline out of my body. But when I hit 30 I felt like I’d done everything I could do with her. Do you miss her? Well, I’ve just written and released my own album, full of dark, gay, club, emotional bangers with a lot of classical and acoustic instrumentation. I recently opened for Self Esteem at the Hammersmith Apollo. If you’re not knackered? We’ll bring Céline Dion into bed and shove her under the covers. Then we’ll pop to the local coffee shop to catch up on the gossip and on to a second coffee shop to inform on the gossip we’ve just learnt. Sunday grub? I don’t eat breakfast. It’s a lie that it’s the most important meal of the day. It makes me feel like I want to go back to sleep. My idea of hell is a sloppy Sunday in bed. Sundays growing up? I nearly qualified as a vet. I spent every Sunday working with animals: cleaning up dog shit and feeding grapes to lemurs for minimum wage. Then I’d go back to my grandma’s for a Northern roast and bustle around the hostess trolley while the gravy thickened. Sunday housework? I hate washing my towels. Hoovering is vile. But I do it all: the shit bits like changing the bed, watering the plants. Sunday unwind? Some Sundays we might go clubbing to Adonis or Unfold. On other Sundays we’ll get a roast, or a KFC at a push, with gravy to take me back to my youth. Last thing? Give Céline Dion a kiss, floss, give my husband a kiss and then go to sleep.