To satisfy him, I put on a pair of slippers and go downstairs to inspect the dining-room clock.

What happens to a man when he wanders about the house in the middle of the night, clad in a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers, there is no need to recount; most men know by experience.

Everything--especially everything with a sharp corner--takes a cowardly delight in hitting him.
When you are wearing a pair of stout boots, things get out of your way; when you venture among furniture in woolwork slippers and no socks, it comes at you and kicks you.

I return to bed bad tempered, and refusing to listen to his further absurd suggestion that all the clocks in the house have entered into a conspiracy against me, take half an hour to get to sleep again.

From four to five he wakes me every ten minutes.