Why This Is Hell

I was reading Iain M. Banks's The Player of Games in bed yesterday morning, when I heard a flapping sound. It turned into one of those days when you never quite get up. I'd woken at 7.14, which is to say a minute before my alarm would have gone off had I set it, and I figured I had the choice over either dozing through Broadcasting House if I wanted to hear it, or listening to every word if I decided I wanted more sleep. I managed a little sleep through the programme that was on, but the Sunday service woke me and I went to start doing computer things and plot whether I could read two Iain M. Banks novels that day.

( How went the day? )