I like nothing better than spending the day down a disused mine shaft under Northmoor trying to work out what happened to my daughter... oh hang on that was Bob Peck's perfect Sunday.
Like Ken I'm not constrained to living for the weekend - although sometimes the problem with working freelance and from home is that I have to spend the occasional Sunday working through a soon to be released DVD box set of something dreadful or have to spend a good portion of the day banging out a few thousand words on exactly what went wrong with The Punisher movie. Would I trade a long snooze in bed every Sunday for the confinement of an office strait jacket though? Not bloody likely.
My partner does do the Monday to Friday, 9 to 5 (well 8 to 5 actually) so while it's all very well for me to swan off and look for traces of M@ up some East End back alleyway on a Tuesday afternoon, Jess spends her time stalking the corridors of power at Westminster, calling out MPs for being lying twats before going back to Canary Wharf to chase up any mad scientists that she may have seen referenced on Boing Boing. This means the weekend belongs to her and I fall in line to make sure we have a fun one. Yesterday that meant Christmas shopping (less of a chore when you have Anthrax fed into your ears via an ipod killer) while today it involved getting up very late and thinking of things to do under the covers that would make Frank Zappa and a mudshark blush in order to ensure a new generation of bloggers will be around to annoy after we're gone.
Outside of the flat? Well, living in SE1 means we have the Thames at our disposal and can wander out anytime for a well wrapped stroll and feel sorry for the tourists who have to leave all this cool stuff behind.
Sometimes though the best thing about living in London is having the ability to leave the damn place for a little while. Later today we'll start making sure we have everything sorted for our pre Christmas trip to Gothenburg and maybe start penciling in some dates for the post New Year trip to San Francisco where the SFist mob will try and drink us under the table again.
On and off during the day I'll catch up with friends via their various online homes from Kung Fu Monkeys to Fleshbotters and try and get through the email that piled up while I was visiting my home town a few days ago. I rescued a large stack of old 2000ADs while I was up there so that will give me a little nostalgia kick while I put them back in numerical order and get annoyed that somewhere along the way 15 years just flew by. While I fill the kitchen table with Thrill Power, Jess will catch up with her blogging and skip over my MP3 playlist until she finds something grrly. We don't watch TV or own a radio so while we always fail to recognise the mediocre it frees up a lot of time to get our ears around John Zorn or track down that elusive Takashi Miike movie. At some point I'll blog or blog or indeed blog.
Later tonight we'll relax in front of the box with a couple of glasses of wine and whatever the Bit Torrent stream washes up for us or perhaps one of the DVD screeners I keep piled up when we want to see something a little odd. Just before midnight Jess will crash out on the sofa and I can start making plans for the rest of the week - which editors to annoy, which press screenings to blag my way into and which websites still need a touch of Mike goodness... and there's always both the new Cormac McCarthy and Paul Auster to finish.
It's not quite as cool as slaying the undead or transforming into a giant robot, but the hours and benefits are pretty good.
