I wake up at about 6.30, and the first thing I do is turn on the BBC World Service. Docket, who’s my little soul mate, often sleeps with me. He’s grey and white with pink paws and big yellow eyes, and with him at my heel I’ll then head downstairs to make some tea. I live in an 18th-century weaver’s house with five floors; my bedroom’s at the top and my kitchen’s at the bottom. Docket will open his little cupboard and nudge at his food, while I reach for my china teapot. Mum gave it to me. It’s got a pink rose on it and has a matching cup and saucer and milk jug. I put it all on a wicker tray and head back upstairs to my satin sheets.

This, to me, is a perfect start to the day. On my own, catching up on my thoughts, my ideas — me time. If I don’t have that, I end up in a bad mood. About 9, I’ll make some porridge and two slices of toast with strawberry jam, and then get ready. My bathroom and dressing room are on the floor below, and it’s either a shirt and jeans or a shirt and skirt. If the outfit doesn’t work, I go to pieces — it’s potentially the first massive problem of the day. Jewellery is something I always wear — I have done since I was a kid. It’s not a bling thing, it’s tradition — I’m half Turkish Cypriot. This gold chain, for instance, was a present from my twin brother, Paul, and I keep my nan’s wedding rings on it.

What then puts Tracey in a really good mood is if she can go for a swim. It stops me getting angry and I’d be the size of a f***ing house if I didn’t. But what often happens is I’ll be just about to go to the pool when I’ll think: “Oh, f***ing hell, I’ve got a meeting in an hour, I won’t make it.” That sends me into a sulk. I’ll then sit there procrastinating about why I end up doing things I don’t want to do. At 10 I’ll talk to Alex or Natasha, who both work for me and who will no doubt remind me of other meetings I’ve forgotten and calls I need to make, which’ll make me even moodier.

Lately I’ve been preoccupied with things like the retrospective I’ve got at the Scottish National Gallery in August, a catalogue, charity work and a room I’ve curated at this year’s Royal Academy Summer Show, which includes one of my own paintings on loan from Elton and David’s collection. So it’s been endless phone calls and e-mails. And

if I see my Polish housekeeper, Joanna, coming in the door at 12, I know I’ve f***ed up because it means half the day’s gone and I haven’t left yet. Then before I know it, it’s lunchtime. Every Monday I make chicken soup from Sunday’s roast; that usually does me for several days.

If I’m not rushing around like a lunatic, it’s heaven. It means I can go to my studio. I’ve got two, both nearby: one I call my “dry” studio, where I create all my non-messy things like sewing and drawing, and the other where I do painting and sculpture. It’s where I am at the moment, and the first thing I do when I arrive is turn off my mobile and take off my clothes — I’m more comfortable in my bra, shorts and an apron. Then, within these walls, I create this other world, Tracey’s world. As it happens, I’m working on a series of self-portraits, and recently did this mad, gothic one of myself. In it, I’m half-naked, wearing a black baroque dress.

I guess I’ve been thinking about the fact that I’m getting closer to 50 than 40, so I’m trying to make myself feel sexy.

In the lead-up to any show my art becomes all-consuming and exhausting. And yet, I need to do this. In fact, if I’m away from my work for any length of time, I start feeling unwell, frustrated, upset, angry. It’s on the same level as a baby not getting its food. If art was taken away from me, my world would fall apart… I’d fall apart. I’d lose my personality, my direction, my focus. If I hadn’t managed to wangle a good art education, I don’t know what I’d be doing.

In the evenings I might see a friend, and last week I had my mum staying. It was her 80th birthday and we went to see Pygmalion and had dinner at the Ivy. She still lives in Margate, where I grew up, while my dad, who’s 87, lives in Cyprus. To be honest, I’m a very homely person. I like nothing better than going home in the evening, putting something in the oven and getting into my tartan pyjamas. And although I’ve got a lovely living room and what I call my Freud room, where I keep all my paraphernalia, I spend a lot of time in my bedroom. It runs the length of the loft and has a leather sofa, bentwood rocking chairs, a 1920s Persian carpet and two old fireplaces I’ve turned into bookshelves.

I’ve lived alone for years now, and although I have a boyfriend — who’s a photographer — he’s up in Scotland. Most of the time I’m on my own. I guess the saddest thing for me at this point in my life is I’ve always wanted to be in love and have children at the same time, but it never happened. When I was 32, the idea of having a baby was a joke and I’d be the first to admit that at any time my selfish levels run high, a good 86 out of 100. Now it’s not going to happen because I’m getting too old — it pisses me off. It’s a hard one, something Tracey thinks about a lot these days.

But at the same time, I’ve worked incredibly hard at being a good Tracey, doing what’s best for Tracey, and when I drift off to sleep, I know I’m one of the lucky ones. I do what I love and I get recognition for it. That still makes me think: “Wow!”

Interview: Ria Higgins. Photograph: Big Rocket

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