Golden slumbers

Ok so I don’t sleep.
Most of the time it doesn’t matter, my life’s my own, I don’t have to work to anybody else’s timetable, and like many nimble footed alpha females I have existed on little sleep for years.
And then along comes The Michael Mosley’s of the world, and Facebook adverts, and Tabloid speculations, and all of sudden I’m told that if I don’t sleep I will die from everything from Adverse Childhood Experiences to Zygomycosis.
Can this be true? After all bi-phasic sleeping has been with us since we bedded down with our domestic pets. Having a kip – getting up, getting on down with the drowsy donkey, then back to the straw pallias till the family cock a-doodled us a-wake.
Really ever since I made peace with my nocturnal shenanigans I have had a passable existence. I go to bed at 2.00. Then if the sleep fairy doesn’t descend I’ll get up again and write or read or watch a film or eat some oats or drink something – hot – Bouillon or Rooibosh or even snack on the left overs boxed up in the fridge.
Then I’ll slip betwixt the covers and get up three to four hours later.
Hot water bottles are a good bet to get me off, but if my mind is whirring, not even the warmth of a Northern Git or two rubber bottles can do it.
Having conquered my fear of insomnia I have a rich and varied night life.
And then, before you could say Valerian tea-bags, my body gave up -or in – depending on where you’re lying – or laying – if you’re a chicken.
I worked last Friday and didn’t get into bed until 5.00a.m. And then my brain would not calm down.
I woke up on Saturday felt a little peaky. ‘Strictly’ was hazy and the telly didn’t have its normal appeal.
Went to bed on Sunday, had about 5 hours kip and then on Monday the old git drove me to the station.
11.39 to Charing Cross.
Bafta for lunch
Fortnum and Masons for coffee, which by the way was not worth 17pounds, unless you are a Japanese Tourist.
No 19 to Chelsea.
No 22 back to the station.
6.45 train home.
Bang went my head, thump went my temples,Pink went the conjunctiva, itch, itch, itch went the rest of the eye. Puffiness, pain, possible paranoia.
The ‘oosbind made me an eye patch, the Tuina man, made me go to bed, and there I stayed till yesterday. My eye still matches The Duchess of Sussex’s puce ensemble, and I feel like I have taken a kick from a wild Hampshire horse.
My feet are cold, my fingers are freezing, my patience is tested, but now that the plumber has fixed the pipes, I can have a bath.
So do I put this down to lack of sleep?
Stress – said the neighbour.
Stress – said the dawter.
Stress – said the homeopath.
What a pain – said the ‘oosbind, who has been running round after me like a three legged Collie.
I’m off to run an Epsom Salt bath, lie down in clean sheets, listen to the news, turn the radio off, since that is the cause of my stress, and make a mug of soup.
Will I drift off? Who knows, but as Avery Sawyer says:
‘I think insomnia is a sign that a person is interesting.’
Yeah, and the rest!