Sleep

Sleep is fantastic. It’s less fantastic when you seem to have forgotten how to do it.

I started to write this last night when I couldn’t sleep, but it appeared to be mostly expletives when I read it back in the cold light of day.

It’s a similar routine most nights: I feel tired so I go to bed.

That’s always the best place to start.

Perhaps I’ll then read a bit or have a quick look at Facebook or Twitter. My eyes start to feel even heavier, so I put down the book and/or phone.

Lights out, ready for The Land of Nod.

Except it doesn’t really happen.

I feel myself drifting off and then I’ll get an itch or my foot will suddenly spasm or I’ll have one of those weird pre-sleep dreams of falling and feel like I’ve crash landed into the mattress.

Whatever happens, it’s back to square one.

During this phase I generally noticed that my sense of hearing is heightened.

People quietly walking back from the pub sound like they’re walking on bubble plastic with shoes made of lead. Cats miaowing at one another sound like the drunken ones singing Show Me the Way to Go Home in Top Cat. The church bells definitely have the volume up to 11 on a night and last night my neighbour sounded like they were plugging something into a socket, taking the plug out and then plugging it back in again repeatedly. This isn’t a euphemism, but I’ve no idea what the hell they were actually doing.

The neon numbers of the alarm clock shone bright, mocking me and reminding me that if I fell asleep right away I could manage six hours, tops. And then five.

I always get to sleep at some point after contemplating getting up for several hours.

The best and deepest sleep usually arrives about thirty seconds before my alarm goes off.

Luckily everyone around here seems to be aware that I often try to catch up with a sneaky nap on an afternoon and they thoughtfully use this time to try out their new power tools or talk like Dom Joly making a call on his mobile phone.

My lack of sleep could result in death, but only that of other people, as my patience now wears thin at the slightest thing.

Here’s to another night of fruitlessly counting livestock.