Up early or late? When I was in my 20s and ran off to London nightclubs, I was an owl. Now I’m older and my chance of getting past a bouncer has decreased, I’ve turned into a lark.
Sunday breakfast? After I got ordained, the day of rest became a day of work. I’d get up with coffee at 6am for morning prayer and sometimes treat myself to smoked mackerel pâté on toast – although I’m not sure that made my breath delightful for the early communicants.
Sunday mornings? I retired as a vicar at Easter, so I’ve been going to other people’s churches, which makes you feel like [Strictly Come Dancing judge] Craig Revel Horwood, holding up a score paddle at the back. It’s hard not to judge.
Sunday lunch? One of the nice things about being a vicar was that you could put on your hungry face and troll through your parishioners’ Sunday lunch invitations. My standards got high, so I wouldn’t commit in hope of a better invitation. Since retiring, I’ve discovered crustless quiche with a leaf or two of salad.
Sunday afternoon? Walk the dogs. I’ve got the sea, the Downs, the woods, all sorts of options. We’re exploring at a sedate pace because I’m 60 and the dogs – Daisy and Pongo – are ancient.
Sunday supper? I maintain my childhood Sunday ritual of Heinz tomato soup and sarnies for Sunday supper. It was a big debate between myself and David, my late partner. He thought that it should be soup or a sarnie. We never settled that one.
Sunday unwind? My usual method is to drink a large, single malt Scotch whisky with a lump of ice, which will horrify the whisky purists.
Last thing before bed? The dogs go out for a pee and then they sleep on the bed with me, and we listen to some music. I’ve been listening to a lot of – Art Tatum, although that’s quite exciting before I go to sleep, so perhaps some Renaissance polyphony.
Like or dread Mondays? I was the annoying child who couldn’t wait to get back to school after the summer holidays. I’m the same, even now I’m retired.
Red by the Communards is reissued on 7 October
