They say that Sunday is a day of rest, and it was for me. After weeks of not being satisfied with merely burning the candle at both ends, but rather popping the whole thing in the oven to get it good and melted as fast as possible it all came back to roost (the birds that is, not the candle).
I slept until mid-day. Had breakfast in bed instead of lunch. Read my book on the chaise in the afternoon and only dressed for dinner. Claude had made me soup with croutons for dinner, which I ate and then I went almost immediately back to bed. Perfect.