Sundays mornings? Sundays have changed radically since I moved to the country. I loved to spend mornings going to a gallery, having brunch, reading the Sunday papers. It was gentle, couched, gorgeous.

And now? They start extremely early because we have animals: a cat, two dogs and a chicken. Animals don’t understand Sundays. They don’t think: ‘Oh, how heavenly, we’ll have a little lie-in.’ The cat wants breakfast and the dogs need to be walked.

And the chicken? Poppy is desperate to get out for a peck. She gets treats: strawberry ice lollies in the summer and porridge in the winter. I have a very angelic partner who sees to the animals while I write for an hour. Then, as a reward, I get breakfast in bed.

Presumably eggs? They’re delicious. When we had four hens, we were everybody’s best friend – we always had dozens spare. Even our postman got in on the act.

Out and about? The seaside is always gloriously tempting – 10 minutes away. You can walk along the esplanade with God knows how many others, or head to the beach which is completely undeveloped: no ice-creams.

Sunday grub? Neither of us are keen on a Sunday roast, so we go to a nearby cycling café – we don’t ride bikes – for healthy, delicious sandwiches named after famous cyclists like Bradley Wiggins.

Sunday afternoon? We might go for a walk. It’s called the South Downs, but it mostly seems to be up. The views are gorgeous, but you’ve got to check the weather first. We’ve been caught in torrential rain, which isn’t fun.

Sunday unwind? We’re in the middle of Clarkson’s Farm. I never willingly watched Jeremy Clarkson when he was a buffoon on Top Gear. Now I adore him. The episode where his piglets start to die is tragic.

Mondays? I don’t mind Mondays. It takes time for people to gear up and send emails, so I can write in peace and plan what the week holds.

My National Gallery, London, featuring Jacqueline Wilson is in cinemas now