A quiet nightshift was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because you didn't need to think, a curse because the seconds lasted hours and you *still had to be awake*.
Cremsden had been attempting to use the time constructively but he had a sneaking suspicion that his notes for future apprentice lectures weren't even going to make sense to himself. Particularly not the past where he had failed to notice that he had come to the edge of the paper and continued writing on the desk, possibly because his eyes were shut at the time.
He reached for a mouthful of klah and looked sadly into an empty mug. Well, a leg stretch might wake him up at least and if he needed to make a fresh batch so much the better.
Blackadder: I mean, what about the people that do all the work?
Baldrick: The servants.
Blackadder: No, me; *I'm* the people who do all the work.