How does Sunday start? The same as every morning, just a little later. Most mornings we’re up at 7am for school runs and all that nonsense. You can tell we’re middle-aged: sleeping to half eight feels indulgent.
A slow start? If the boys have a football match we’re up and out. If the game is nearby, I’ll join them. My husband always ends up being referee; it seems very political. I come with my fold-out chair and flask of tea and sit on the sideline happily. I never have a clue what’s going on, but I’ll cheer them on anyway.
If there’s no sport? We take the dog for a walk. I like to get a sandwich from a cafe and chuck the dog a sausage. It’s the only exercise I enjoy, and has improved my health immensely. Since getting a dog I’m always out and about, and my asthmatic lungs are grateful.
A special Sunday? My twin boys were born on a Saturday, four weeks early, on a weekend our whole family was visiting. On the Sunday they came in to meet the little ones. I stayed on the ward with the kids; they all went home for Sunday dinner. Did they bring me any? Did they heck. Thankfully, I was delirious from all the drugs so didn’t notice.
Sundays growing up? Mum and dad ran a club, so I spent Sundays with my grandparents. Gran did a cracking roast, except for her four-day boiled cabbage. I was a teenager before I knew vegetables had crunch or flavour. Grandad would drink the cabbage water, it was a proper northern romance. I try to carry those family- time traditions on, it feels important.
Sunday evening? We spend an hour arguing about what to watch on TV and usually settle on a film that leaves us all disappointed. After putting the boys to bed we might sneak in a glass of wine while doing diaries. Then I fall asleep. God, we’re dead boring.