Sunday worries? My Sundays are changing. My kids are now 17 and 21, and we’re at a crossroads between me being in control and them being old enough to be in control. I’m in an area of grief. The empty nesting has left me quite sad. Family time? Sundays have such a weight of expectation of being together as a family. Food is at the centre of my life – we would all break bread together. Now the kids say, ‘I think you’ll find I’m going to be asleep until 4pm.’ This generation isn’t as scared of their parents as we were. Sundays growing up? My parents were divorced, so it was a game of two halves, travelling between them. Everyone would be drinking. My dad always had a big cigar in his mouth, there was a lot of arguing, a lot of jokes, and there were dogs barking. Everyone seemed to be having an affair in the 70s. In my memory, all the adults were having sex with each other. I was brought up in Surrey. There was nothing else to do other than shag your neighbour. Sunday grub? I’ve written three cookbooks: I’m a feeder. There’s breakfast, brunch, homemade snacks. Then we have a big roast with homemade pudding. As a child, the house would be full and I liked the chaos. Now, I’ll invite any old strangers just to hear that clink of cutlery. Sunday me-time? Don’t knock on the door at 7.30am, because Mum’s in the bath. My husband endlessly books massages. I’m like: ‘You all right mate? You could just run a bath.’ Sunday memories? My brain is blown by the fact Sundays were defined in my 20s and 30s. You’d have a lie-in, probably have sex, then read the papers. Future Sundays? The kids will leave. Our dog is elderly. Will it just be me and my husband? I’ll fill the void with friends to remind me of the times when I was in charge of the world.