It is the perfect day for it.  The sky is coated in thick gray clouds; the air is cool and moist.  The weather practically begs for you to turn inwards and indulge in an afternoon of reading in bed.  You put on the kettle.  You prepare the tea tray.  You change into comfy jammies and wrap your knitted blanket around you, ready to forget about the world for a little while.

You don't commit to one book, however, or the lush enjoyment of losing yourself in a single adventure.  Instead, you give yourself over to the luxury of many worlds spread out before you on your bed, each book a passport to another life.  You read some of one, then another, content to flit between your favorite characters as if you were hosting a dinner party and they were your honored guests. 

Eventually, when the pot of tea is empty, and each book has been turned through--some more than once--you allow yourself to drift, comforted by the soft texture of your knitted blanket, the quiet hush of the day, and the collection of books in disarray on your bed.  You close your eyes and, as sleep takes you, feel the afternoon unravel into evening.