Nothing I do seems to go right today. I'm hypersensitive - everything anyone says to me feels like criticism.
Staring at endless reprints of journal articles. I know I should be really excited at writing The Book, but my head's so full of "Mental rehearsal of motor tasks recruits alpha-motoneurones but fails to recruit human fusimotor neurones selectively" (Gandevia SC, Wilson LR, Inglis JT and Burke D, J Physiol (Lond) 1977 Nov 15; 505 (pt 1): 259-66, if anyone cares) that I could just about vomit from the fatigue it's inducing.
I know a lot of this is due to bad sleep last night; the rats were at the spine again. So I don't despair, I'll keep plugging away, and all shall be well. The high spot so far was waking up this morning to Home Truths on BBC Radio 4 to discover that Tantum ergo Sacramentum can be sung to the tune of All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor. Oh, OK, that should be 'girls', not 'boys', but...