I bought this Sunday, right. It was cheap, being sold off the back of a pick-up truck at the tail end of a car boot sale. Slightly dented in a couple of places and most of the original paintwork had flaked away but still a bargain. All the integral Sunday features were still intact: the laze around in bed of a morning attachment; the emulating The Commodores feature; the no alarms and no surprises core. And when I got it home and inspected it in more detail I almost wet my whistle on discovering it's a Mark 26 Sunday, a special edition - only three hundred were ever made - religion-free, low-cholesterol no matter how much roast dinner and blackberry and apple crumble you consume, guaranteed to break the ice at parties Sunday replete with wipe-clean surfaces and a tiny biro on a piece of string.
As you can imagine I was ecstatic. It's not the fact that a Mark 26 in such fine working order is worth millions of ponds (but not Rory or Amy). It's not the fact that ownership of a Mark 26 Sunday immediately means you're allowed to punch Prime Ministers in the face without fear of reprisal or prosecution. It's not even the fact that a Mark 26 in working order can act as collateral when you want to buy the Moon.
I was more excited by the fact that I also own a Mark 25 Sunday. Few people know this but there is a strange harmonic resonance emitting from the heart of every Sunday ever manufactured. A 25 and a 26 laid end to end and switched on in sync coagulate time and space around them in such a way as to cause a temporal rift to occur right in the middle of your living room carpet. Oh boy! Time travel.
Limited time travel. There's no saying where or when the rift will open into on any specific occasion that you set up the 25 and 26 in this way. You could end up peering through the rift at a drizzly Thursday in 1920s Bognor but then again you might find you have opened a portal to Hitler's childhood bedroom and all you have to do to stop millions of people dying in the middle of the 20th century is pop inside and strangle the little bastard.
The excited anticipation every time you crank up your 25/26 combo is a bigger rush than that giant statue of Rush which was built on Mount Rushmore when Geddy Lee lied about being born in America in order to become president and have the monument to his band erected. And he'd have gotten away with it. And he did.
I've been somewhat busy teaching the bees Pythagorean theory these past few days in an attempt to get them to add some funky new moves into their pollen dances. It's going well apart from the odd occasion when a cocky young bee with slicked back wings and a flick knife decides I'm, like, too old man, too old to understand teenage bees and their needs, man, so he/she/gender-neutral takes off and dances most of West Hive Story with his/her/gender-neutral-possessive rebellious pals.
But this weekend I'm a crank up my limited edition Sundays. I'm a tear me a hole in reality. I'm a really hoping for somewhere exhilarating, somewhen culturally significant rather than seeing myself from a week last Tuesday washing my smalls in a puddle. Who knows, I may end up in Renaissance Italy standing behind Leonardo as he paints that grumpy bird. I could drop my pants and moon her, see if it gets her to crack a proper smile.
If you're extra nice to me I will let you come along sometime when I fire up my Sundays. We can be heroes. Just for one day. A Sunday. Or a week last Tuesday washing our smalls in a puddle.
The excited anticipation every time you crank up your 25/26 combo is a bigger rush than that giant statue of Rush which was built on Mount Rushmore when Geddy Lee lied about being born in America in order to become president and have the monument to his band erected. And he'd have gotten away with it. And he did.
I've been somewhat busy teaching the bees Pythagorean theory these past few days in an attempt to get them to add some funky new moves into their pollen dances. It's going well apart from the odd occasion when a cocky young bee with slicked back wings and a flick knife decides I'm, like, too old man, too old to understand teenage bees and their needs, man, so he/she/gender-neutral takes off and dances most of West Hive Story with his/her/gender-neutral-possessive rebellious pals.
But this weekend I'm a crank up my limited edition Sundays. I'm a tear me a hole in reality. I'm a really hoping for somewhere exhilarating, somewhen culturally significant rather than seeing myself from a week last Tuesday washing my smalls in a puddle. Who knows, I may end up in Renaissance Italy standing behind Leonardo as he paints that grumpy bird. I could drop my pants and moon her, see if it gets her to crack a proper smile.
If you're extra nice to me I will let you come along sometime when I fire up my Sundays. We can be heroes. Just for one day. A Sunday. Or a week last Tuesday washing our smalls in a puddle.
steven harris is adverse to putting his name in capitals because names aren't that important. Also, lower case is sexy. steven writes all sorts of stuff including fiction, poetry, songs, opinion pieces and shopping lists. He does not write on lavatory doors any more. his blog has writing in it and can be located at www.theplanetharris.wordpress.com He lives in Devon with an imaginary cat called Kafka.
Follow him on Twitter as @theplanetharris
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