Love or hate Sundays? Love, but I feel we should put out a warning. My Sundays aren’t nearly as showbiz-filled as you’d think. Anyone reading is going to be disappointed by the second paragraph. How do Sundays start? Up early, usually still in four-day-old-makeup, because of my collection of offspring. My son is 20. My daughter, 17, my youngest, 12. We’ll feed our rabbit, Cheese. She’s mad for parsley. Then I’ll make peanut butter or Marmite on toast and check the news on Radio 4. Then? The most hated word in my family is: homework. I still remember the 5pm Sunday panic, so what I want them to do is get it done. Then I brush my teeth and go back to bed. Sunday exercise? I’ve never been to a gym. I’ve never done anything healthy. By now, the 17-year-old will finally be up, and there’s a big discussion about what we’re having for lunch. What’s the plan? Two words: dim sum. Ideally, we’re off to Royal China on London’s Baker Street for layers of sticky prawn goo wrapped in parcels. But usually I cook roast chicken, too much garlic, covered in bacon, with a plethora of potato. After lunch? I’m probably going to need a nap. I don’t want to be anywhere near cleaning-up time, so I’ve always magically got a Zoom or phone call to make when it’s time to tidy. Afternoons? My husband and I are obsessed with bridge. My fantasy is to tour the country playing competitions in matching tank tops. So we’re going to play cards. There’s no phones at the table. I’m a harridan when it comes to tech. I need to be less competitive. The 12-year-old might cry, but he’s got to be more careful about his bidding. Evenings? We’ll argue about what to watch. Studio Ghibli is a good place to land, or a Will Ferrell, Sandra Bullock or Julia Roberts film, although the 12-year-old says he’s had enough of watching people do kissing. Bedtime? I’m in bed at 8.30pm. I did warn you that it’s the most boring Sunday you’ve ever come across, but it’s my Sunday and I’m delighted for it.