Describe a Sunday morning before lockdown I’d set my alarm for 10am so as not to miss my spin class. My boyfriend Meshach is a dancer and hates any extracurricular exercise, so I’d often go alone. So much of my week is spent talking to people that I really like having that time by myself.
And now? I’ve been indulging in doing absolutely nothing.
What does Sunday feel like?
Aspirational. It’s the only day of the week I buy a newspaper. I’ll flick through and circle all the recipes I intend to try and exhibitions I say I’ll visit, but never do.
Do you cook? I do a roast every week. Before the lockdown we’d always have 10 people round; recently it’s just been the two of us, but I still can’t figure out how to make a smaller meal. I make a chicken stock – and every week I throw it out on Monday because it stinks.
Sundays growing up? With the curtains drawn in the living room while my dad, brother and sister watched the football; the smell of gravy as Mum slaved away in the kitchen with a bright red face. And amid it all I’d be upstairs, trying to record that week’s chart.
A special Sunday? Doing my first ever stint on Radio 1. I was 22 and only joined Annie Mac for five minutes. I jumped into a cab after and, crossing Battersea Bridge, looked out at the lights and felt like I was in a Richard Curtis movie, having fulfilled a childhood dream. When I became a regular I’d come off air buzzing, and would bribe my housemates with crisps, cigarettes and beer to be awake when I got home.
Night in or night out? Heading out on a Sunday night feels so glamorous, almost dangerous, even if only to the cinema or for a cocktail in town. I think it’s good to do something which reminds me I’m actually 35, and don’t need to have a bath, pack my school bag and be in bed at 8pm on a Sunday night any more. Sometimes, I think we forget.
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