Yesterday was a bad morning. I woke up at 9 and simply wasn't ready for the day. I threw on my groovy bathrobe and wandered into the sitting room. Yellow walls and glorious morning sunshine seared my retinas. Flatmates shuffled around, fuzzy headed. I drank a pint of water and mumbled something at them. It was probably 'morning'. It wasn't 'good morning.' I'm pretty sure of that. I sent some fuzzy-headed, hungover, non-sequitur text messages and bed claimed me back.
It kept me until 12. I decided against a run. I thought I felt better. I wandered around, aimlessly, until I found the pub and hungover flatmates. We decided on beer and food that was terrible for us. I bought flour and yeast but didn't bake.
I reread the last few chapters of the Monty Python autobiography because I didn't remember reading them the night before.
I didn't do much, really, and I enjoyed every moment.