Sunday morning starts… Between 5.30 and 7.30am, whenever my son, Reuben, decides to wake up, jumping on my face aggressively while shouting, ‘Daddy let’s go outside.’ I might try to steal another hour in bed by putting on Paw Patrol, but I love that he just wants to be in nature all the time.
A slow start? After half an hour of explaining to Reuben that he can’t have chocolate cake for breakfast, we’ll sit and eat together. He’s discovered reggae music, so tells Alexa what to play. Then we’ll take the dog out. We live in a village in the middle of nowhere, with beautiful forests around. If I’m lucky we’ll squeeze in a pint.
Sundays growing up? I left home at 17. Before that Sundays were for roasts with family friends. After that, I’d still be at jungle raves for Sunday’s sunrise, stepping euphorically out into dawn after hours dancing in the dark. The train home – and trying to fall asleep at 10am – was not quite as fun.
A special Sunday? July 2016, playing the Montreux jazz festival on the banks of Lake Geneva – I’d never played such a prestigious gig. Prince and Freddie Mercury had performed – there was so much history. Like with all big shows, though, I can’t remember anything from being on stage. I go into autopilot: fight or flight.
Do you entertain? As much as possible. I live in the area where I grew up, so friends and family are always around. I worked in a pub when I was younger, cooking for big groups doesn’t faze me. I’m so happy sweating in the kitchen with a glass of wine, with a houseful of people around and kids running around.
And Sunday night? Reuben needs four or five books to settle down after all the excitement, then I try to squeeze some work in: there’s a lot to do between his bedtime and mine.