Now my perfect Sunday...

We're breaking out the Hot Fuzz quotations this time (sorry Joss), as the most prominent subject in my mind is my perfect Sunday. The perfect Sunday that I just had.

So. My perfect Sunday. It kicked off with, as most Sundays do now, with being at work. It was a beautiful, sunny day and anyone familiar with the English weather's current behavioural patterns will know that it just hasn't been sunny for a long while. The typical English response to this - mass exodus from their houses, descend on their town centres and then harass poor, innocent cafe workers with their relentless tide of tedious requests.

I assure you I am not in the least bit bitter about any of this. Honestly.

Anyway, back to my perfect Sunday. So far, you might think it had been a bit pants. I'd been stuck inside all day, serving the general population who were enjoying the sunshine. But strangely enough, that didn't manage to detract from how nice my day became. If anything, it provided a much needed contrast, thus balance, enabling my day to be perfect.

Could I say "perfect" any more? I'll let you keep the running score.

Eventually, work finished, I managed to run away. Now, a bit of context here. My laptop died after three years of noble service (this post is being crafted on my housemate's Mac. The switch around of the @ and " keys is still a little disconcerting). Due to this, when I arrived home on Sunday, I did not automatically switch on said deceased laptop and check my emails. Instead, I made myself a pot of tea (Moroccan mint. Finest kind), stretched myself out on a sofa in our now clean and tidy living room and proceeded to blitz my way through The Gods Themselves by Isaac Asimov.

About half an hour into these extremely pleasant and relaxed proceedings, I had my epiphany. I was in the middle of my perfect Sunday. Everything was calm and peaceful, I had a good book and some damn good tea (thank you Teahouse Emporium!). All was well. The Universe was in balance. Could it get any better?

Apparently so.

You see, I am a man of infinitely useless knowledge. And that knowledge occasionally finds a convenient outlet in a pub quiz setting. So when my friend Phoenix text me and asked if I wanted to go to the quiz, my evening was pretty much set.

Quick aside: my close friends all have call signs. This is a result of extreme Battlestar Galactica geekdom, which manifested in August 2010. My wingman, Starbuck (so named for the obvious reason of being my wingman...or really wingwoman), was elsewhere while I was at a club, where I was hoping to run into a girl I had met (/Starbuck had made sure I talked to). In a moment of nervous geekdom, I text Starbuck for advice and called her the aforementioned call sign. It stuck. Since then, many people have call signs. I received mine (from Starbuck) in November 2010: Achilles. Why? Because girls are my Achilles' Heel.

They really, really are.

So anyway, pub quiz with Phoenix, Starbuck's boyfriend Wench and two other mutual friends who have yet to receive call signs, rounded off my perfect Sunday. We may have only placed 5th, but it was still an extremely enjoyable evening.

There you have it. My perfect Sunday. Tea, a good book, followed by a damn good quiz. Tradition to continue next week, with different tea, different book, but same quiz and more than likely the same team. But who knows? The future holds many wonderful possibilities. Assassin Girl could come into the cafe and I could finally pluck the courage to ask her out. Kindle Girl might impress me first. A rampaging mob of respectable feminists may murder me for the previous two comments. The editor of SFX could come back in, I would recognise him this time (not just his Mass Effect N7 hoodie) and the resulting conversation could land me my dream job.

If only.

Alternatively, I settle for him noticing the Twitter post linking to this blog, reading it, putting two and two together and then offering me a job...

I get the feeling I'll see Assassin Girl before then...