Sunday start? I get the short straw. My husband takes our eight-year-old to rugby, where they eat bacon sandwiches – it seems easy. I have to get our 11-year-old ready for hockey, where I look after our seven- and two-year-olds. Usually, I haven’t washed or eaten.
Sounds exhausting. It is. I’ll stand on the sidelines, trying to keep control of the two-year-old who is grumpy because she needs a nap. We’ll pop into a café and get croissants and coffees to keep us going.
Then what? We’ll drive home. Everybody’s had a proper airing, so that’s good. I’ll put a chicken in the oven and we’ll play board games, attempt to tidy the house, watch some films and put off homework, so there’s a mad panic before bedtime. Then I dunk everybody in the bath.
Sunday night? By the time everybody’s in bed, I’m exhausted and on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
Fantasy Sunday? I’d lie in until 11am and then watch Sarah Beeny doing up some French château while having a really nice foot rub. Someone would carry me downstairs, put me on the sofa, give me a glass of sherry and cook a roast dinner. I wouldn’t wash. I’d stay fermenting in my own sweat.
Any Welsh traditions? My mother forced us to go to church. I liked to perform or read a poem. I don’t think you should go anywhere on a Sunday. We should just hibernate, so I don’t have any traditions now.
Sunday sexy time? Oh God, not with four children! If I did have a spare hour, I’d sit and watch the Australian version of The Traitors rather than muster up any energy to have some sexy time. My husband would have a different answer, but he’s not breastfeeding a two-year-old right now.
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