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"I'd love a cup of tea," Arthur said lazily.
Ford lifted his head and glared at him. Normally this had the effect of making Arthur irritated and vaguely guilty, or feeling like he was a peaceful herd animal wandering over the Serengeti who'd just happened to notice that what he'd taken for a nearby tuft of grass in fact had far too much fur, claws and fangs for comfort. At this particular moment, however, he was feeling far too self-satisfied to worry about the annoyed look on Ford's face.
"A cup of tea?" Ford said. "Is that the pinnacle of your desires? That technique was perfected over millennia by religious recluses who worked out from first principles exactly how much bliss the average-sized bipedal lifeform could stand without their heart exploding. It was all theory till I came along and caused a Reformation." He paused. "Or was that Zaphod? Anyway, the point is, in what dimension is "I'd love a cup of tea" an appropriate response to mathematically-precise bliss?"
"I'm very blissful," Arthur said quickly, feeling a sudden cold draught of fear that Ford might go from irritated to one of his rare and utterly infuriating bouts of self-pity. Arthur had no intention of listening to complaints about Zaphod as a child ever again, which was where Ford's self-pity usually ended up. "I'm extremely blissful," he said forcefully. "It's just that I find a cup of tea rounds off any pleasant experience. So to speak."
Ford sat up and grimaced at the universe in what looked to Arthur like mental anguish, or possibly wind.
"Why did I have to land in England?" he muttered.