My lethargy was veering (sluggishly) towards apathy. Luckily something occurred to me as I was staring at the polish slowly coagulating on my wife's nails. This was when she remarked that I would live a longer, healthier life if I were to get up and do something before she emasculated me with a blunt knife. Apparently she even showed me which one but it was too late because I'd already fallen asleep on the cat.
So I've begun writing the fifth novel in my four part series of young hooded heroes. Which was a bit of a surprise since until the moment it slapped me on the back of the head (although that might just have been the hammer my wife keeps for such emergencies), I had no idea there would be another. And unfortunately the plan founders somewhat due to the fact that I've yet to complete book three, whilst book four is only half written. At this rate I'll soon have begun book fifteen.
"Just write!", she ordered, sparing me a millisecond of her attention lest she miss something crucial in her soap opera. "Write your obituary if you like, because if you don't stop bugging me, and the cat, those are the last words you ever will type. Oh, and your daughter says if you wake her up once more with your sobbing, you're dog meat."
Thus commanded, I'm going to do an all-nighter. I've seen that blade up close - it's got to hurt.