Sundays are no longer anything to shout about for me, sadly, because on every Day Of Rest, I have to go to work. Hence my perfect Sunday may involve a touch more fantasy than those of my comrades. Bear with me...
I wake early enough to catch Match Of The Day on the box. Much to my surprise, my girlfriend has become a football fanatic overnight, thus relieving the need for me to shuffle my cold feet into the lounge to watch it. Lineker and Hansen bring me news of United's six-nil victory over Arsenal in which Pires, amazingly, is sent off for 'being a girly diver'. My deep joy is followed by a fried egg sandwich (in which the yolk is cooked to perfection - still runny, but with a gooey stickiness that stops it blending into the chilled ketchup) and is washed down by a strong, fresh black coffee.
Whilst in the kitchen, I switch on the radio. The World Service brings me news that today is national No Pop day. Consequently, Anastacia is banned from the airwaves for twenty four hours and there will be no chart shows this afternoon. Hence I am by default relieved of my usual Sunday radio programme duties. Rejoice! It is, I reflect, rather like one of those wintery days at school when the pipes freeze solid and the boiler packs in.
Revelling in my new-found freedom, I set the bath running and nip out for a Sunday paper. On my return, I consult the Guardian Guide (chuckling at Michael Holden's All Ears, as ever) while the water warms my toes. I discover that the National is screening a series of Noir classics, kicking off this afternoon with The Third Man. Plans are set in motion as my girlfriend and I hop on the Misery Line, which is, of course, running smoothly all the way to Embankment. Here we jump off and bundle into Gordon's Wine Bar to escape the rain (I'm retaining a smidgen of realism here, after all, Sundays in Britain are wet without fail, right?).
After a couple of hours spent cuddling up over a warm bottle of red and a ploughman's in Gordon's cellar, we step outside to find the sun has miraculously come out, so we take a short walk over to the NFT. It goes without saying that the film is fantastic, but we have the cinema practically to ourselves (stop your sniggering at the back) and no-one throws popcorn, which is always a bonus.
We then head home, stopping on the high street for some fresh veg and spuds. A roast lamb feast is prepared effortlessly to a soundtrack of Dylan and Jack Johnson, and it's not long before we're stuffing our faces in front of episode after episode of 24 on DVD (punctuated intermittently by the odd dose of Futurama and Peep Show).
Inevitably, we both fall asleep just as Kim Bauer gets herself kidnapped for the seventh time. Some things never change.