How does Sunday start? When in London, with an hour watching Andrew Marr on the television. I quickly become depressed because some wazzock he has interviewed will have deeply irritated me, so I’ll probably go back to bed in an attempt to sleep my anger off.
The perfect morning? A walk through Regent’s Park in an effort to hit my 10,000 daily steps, and then breakfast at Greenberry Café. There are photographs on the walls of people who have been part of their community, myself included, which warms me. Then I’d like to go home and do absolutely nothing.
And in the US? I live in Brooklyn, but have a place in Hillsdale on the Massachusetts border in Upstate New York. There, I sit on my deck and take in nature. It’s a tremendous, almost religious experience.
Do you work? I don’t mind working the rest of the week, even Saturdays. Sunday, however, I’m protective of. I find that otherwise I lose all sense of time.
An afternoon activity? Sorting my many pills into their respective boxes. I clear my table, take out my prescriptions, and put them into their correct cubicles like small children. You name it, they say I have it: high blood pressure, diabetes, the list goes on. I personally can’t feel anything is wrong with me.
Do you cook? Barely. I put things together, and occasionally heat them up. I make a Sunday evening salad: rollmop herring, anchovies, cheese, tomatoes and onions. I love to entertain – the older I get, the more important it feels to keep in touch. But I’ll take guests out, my apartment is so bloody untidy.
The last thing you look at? The Word Crush app on my phone. I spend a good half-hour playing. I’m at level 984, which is quite impressive I’m told, particularly as I can’t spell.