Due to one or two little recent events which I may have mentioned here, I haven't been sleeping to call, you know, sleep.  There's the semi-horizontal-in-the-bed thing* which goes on for a few hours in the wee smalls, but sleep is an inaccurate description.  I'd like to say I'm at least catching up with the last eighty-four years of the London Review of Books but . . . I'm not.  Every time I nod awake again I'm rereading the same blasted paragraph**.

            So quality of anything at the ...