For no very good reason, I proceeded to wake up at 8.34am, as alert as a child on Christmas morn. And in spite of really needing to catch up on missed zee’s (as Sesame Street might call them), I couldn’t get back to sleep.
I lay there, eyes shut, trying to remember what I had been dreaming about, to no avail. Not that that would have helped, necessarily – the last dream I remember involved my dad having an in-depth conversation with his pet rabbit about why if wouldn’t get out of its hutch. I don’t think my dad has ever had a pet rabbit, much less an agoraphobic one.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Captain Tact enquired, aware that the amber nectar is often as good a remedy as any to my ills.
“No,” I wailed, prostrating myself a melodramatically amongst the covers as was the style at the time, “I’m going to try and go back to sleep.”
About ten minutes later, I sheepishly went through and made my own.
Waking up before the alarm goes leaves me feeling morally and spiritually bereft. How can you possibly enjoy anything at all if you haven’t had at least 8 hours in bed?!
Lately I’ve only been getting 6 or 7 hours a night during the week due to all the writing. This is OK up to a point, but means that a lie-in at the weekend is imperative for my mental wellbeing. Unfortunately that isn’t always possible due to prior engagements, and adding self-sabotage to the mix is not the plan I had.
It annoyed me particularly on this occasion because I knew I wasn’t going to be back in bed for any length of time for another 36 hours. I had Stuff To Do during the day, and was spending the evening at the Cameo Night of Horror; scheduled to run from 11pm on Saturday till about 8am Sunday morning. Then I was going over to Fife for a picnic with my family.
I was preemptively tired by the prospect, and very annoyed with my body for its nonsense.
The positive side, of course, was that I got a couple of thousand words done for book 4 of 12 Books in 12 Months that I otherwise might not have managed. I must grudgingly concede that it can be quite a good feeling to randomly gain two hours to get on with stuff. There again, those two hours might’ve come in handy during Terror at the Opera, a film by turns confusing, pretentious, and dull; but impossible to sleep through because the soundtrack is so loud it makes your ear canals hurt.
Still, concentrating on the glad aspect – no sleep = more words. Hooray!
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