Usually Fred, too, was rather fond of Sunday mornings. There was no care in the world on a bright and well, non-early Sunday morning, because they meant sleeping until noon (or whatever time George would decide to burn down the kitchen that chosen day) and then laying in bed for a good couple of hours more, just soaking in the warmth. Fred did like his Sunday Morning Lay-Abouts, be he awake or not. Currently he was far away in the land of sleep, though, having a most wondrous dream about flying on a dragon somewhere in Africa. It was an absolutely awesome dream, seeing there was this beauty of a girl holding on to him for dear life and ---
Suddenly something heavy and uncomfortable slammed straight into him, cutting his dream in half, throwing the air out of his lungs and making his head spin. It didn't take too many seconds for him to regain both consciousness and breath, whacking the unfailingly familiar form on top of him with all his semi-asleep might right over the place he thought it's head, hollering all the while. "WHA' THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOIN', YA SODDING WANKER ?!"