Plum

t'was sunday.
having gone to sleep after a lunch that could have beached a whale,
I came to and found that the sun had raised its tent and stolen away.

oh perish !! if anything were to fill the soul with a dark damp cold,
it is but wasted sunlight. ( For whom does the Sun shine, if not for me ...? )
The situation called for a remedy mot juste - in other words,
a P.G Wodehouse book ( pronounced Woodhouse, not Woadhouse ).
If anything can bring the cheery glow and crackle of a warm fireplace
to a the cold damp dark cell that passes for the soul,
it is a Wodehouse book, trust me.