Sundays are for deciding to re-watch The Sopranos. Specifically that episode in which Tony gets a bad tummy and then talks to a fish. You wonder what you might fever dream of, if you too were to go and eat at an Indian restaurant, then have enough room for a snack at Artie Bucco's fine Italian eatery? Would you too dream of surreal wandering down a boardwalk? Would you instead dream something different? Would you dream of a platypus sitting in a high-rise apartment, looking up from the newspaper as he reminds a house guest not to trip over a potted cactus when they exit his bathroom?

Would that be the-Oh. Oh no. It's happening again. The person who's emerged from the bathroom, tripping over the plant on the way, is bald and reeks of alternative comedy. Ready the words and prepare to fire.

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Sundays are for waking up in a Holiday Inn and finding that the breakfast buffet hash browns are glued to the bottom of the serving pan. Tarnation! I bellow like an enraged thunder god, like Vesuvius at full bloom, and stab the tray wildly with my knife and fork. I am dragged away by heavyset teenagers, who are about to heave me into the canal when I protest that I haven’t yet finished writing the weekly Sunday Papers article for prominent videogame website Rock Paper Shotgun. Shocked, the outsized urchins release me, and I scurry back to my typing desk with a mugful of baked beans. I’ll be back for those hash browns. I will have my vengeance.

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