Unusually for a Sunday, I went to bed early last night. The missus and I met her parents, who were in town for the weekend, and had a slap-up lunch. A couple of glasses of wine and two lovely courses left us both feeling replete and soporific.
We managed to stay awake long enough to pop out in the early evening for an additional brace of sherries, and that was that. Come 10.30, I was flagging like an RAF ground crew member during the Berlin airlift, so I ran upstairs and leapt into bed at speed, both feet off the ground, like Roy Keane in his pomp. I was asleep in a heatbeat. It was with some surprise and disappointment then that I awoke this mornng feeling shattered. I had slept solidly for eight hours, which I consider to be my side of the bargain kept. So what happened to the quality of my sleep during those many small hours? I must have been thrashing about the whole time, like a giant confused fish. Perhaps it was the mushy peas that set me off?
Today is a trying day, work-wise, which has added to my woes. I'm alone in the office and there's loads of exacting, mission-critical work to wade through. The upshot is a tired, gittery self. I'm not at my best when T&G, not even close. Expansive and loquacious is my metier. And that is thin on the ground this afternoon.
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