To sleep

I slept horribly last night, badly enough that it's the middle of the day and I'm dragging. I'm surprised because I had nothing to drink, and wine is the usual culprit. But I do feel enormously guilty for wanting to nap in the middle of the day. Instead I'm reading Simon Hopkinson's Roast Chicken and Other Stories, which has been billed as "the most useful cookbook of all time." I am grumpy with weariness and just want to lay down my sleepy head to regain the hours I lost between 2 and 6 this morning. I don't feel funny, or inspired, or anything else, just heavy-lidded and of ill-humor. It's a very attractive combination.