How does Sunday start? At 6am with Luna, our golden Labrador, licking my arm to get me moving. I take her out, grab a coffee and check my three daily morning emails: from the police, TFL and City Hall. Our Sunday luxury is getting the papers delivered (I was a paperboy myself), which I read after morning prayers.

Sunday lunch? Dal and fresh rotis at Mum’s. There’s more than 30 of us; it’s total chaos, four generations of siblings arguing. There’s a rule in the Khan family: eat fast and speak fast, or you don’t get fed or heard.

Exercise? I’ve been playing Sunday morning football in our local park with the same group of lads since 1994, and I try not to miss it. Kick off is 10am and we’re done by midday. Through marriage, kids and a bereavement we’ve kept it going.

What’s changed? I’ve got close-protection officers with me at all times. They follow when I’m jogging; sit at the next table if we’re out for a meal. They even stand on the edge of the pitch during football – and give me feedback after the game. You get used to it, but I won’t pretend it’s normal.

Do you work? I check my emails twice daily religiously, but I also bring home a few hours of weekend reading: ideas for speeches, briefings. And there are events: a remembrance service one week; celebrations for Diwali the next. Previous London mayors did three or four days a week. I work seven. Things are different during an election campaign. I’m out and about supporting Labour’s London candidates.

How were Sundays as a kid? I don’t mention it much, but Dad was a bus driver. He had a pass for free travel, so he’d take Sundays off and we’d head out across London. Dad’s the reason I know the city so well. He believed in exploring.

Worst habit? Letting the football results determine my Monday morning mood.

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