The problem with Sundays

 

The problem with Sundays, as I have no doubt complained here before, is that I blast out of bed at the crack of 8 a.m., stumble around groping for glasses, teapot, tea, and clothing, in that order,* bolt for the tower, ring like fury for forty-five minutes and . . . collapse.  It's 9:30 a.m. and I've had it for the day.  And today is one of those Sundays that I am very glad I was not ringing a quarter peal for the evening service.** 

            Vicky asked me today if I'd suffered any ill effec