I’d intended to sleep later, but I forgot to turn off my alarm before falling asleep last night. Not only that, but the alarm had been set back by an hour from my normal time for the last few days so that I could get to work earlier, so this morning, when I could have been recovering from the tyranny of that very alarm, it dutifully informed me that I should now wake up. When I glared at it, homicidal urges barely suppressed, it smugly reminded me that I was the one who had set it to the “Seven Day” setting, that it was the victim here, and did I think it was fun be set the task of waking me every morning? Did I think it looked forward to shattering the peace and quiet every morning? Had I ever, even once, stopped to consider what it was like to be forever resented for the very thing I had required it to do?

And so turned off the alarm with less force than I’d originally intended, tried in vain to go back to sleep, and finally contented myself with lying there reading a book for a couple of hours. P would probably have preferred that I get up, but he also finally gave up and settled in for a lazy morning in bed. We dozed and woke and dozed again, and it could have been a perfectly relaxing morning except that I’m still missing that couple of hours of sleep. And I’m still a little hurt that the alarm managed to make me feel guilty about that.