Insomnia. April/May 2008

Insomnia. April / May 2008.

I worry, just before I get out of bed in the morning, that John will turn to me, do a double take, and say:

‘Oh my God! What’s happened to your face?’ because unlike Dorian Grey I do not have a picture corrupting in the attic and like Macbeth I feel I have a face like ‘a book where men may read strange matters’ - liberal doses of Botox notwithstanding. 

The ‘strange matters’ concerned are copious quantities of wine coupled with absolutely no sleep, and don’t tell me that’s not going to become apparent at some point.

Last night I awoke at 5, and the night before and before and the one before that, spiralling backwards all through May and April. 

Once or twice I think I slept til 7.30 or 8 but mostly I didn’t. 

Sometimes, if it is warm enough, I get up at 5 and empty the dishwasher make Zac a cooked breakfast and do all the ironing,  but, normally, because it is cold, I lie in the gathering light listening to the birds shouting and the milkman crashing about. I just lie there with my eyes shut telling myself elaborate stories and pretending that they are dreams. 

My best story is that I have lunch with my Publisher and my Agent at Bibendum and that my Agent talks about a Bidding War and thrashes out a Deal, but as I have never met a Publisher or an Agent or been to Bibendum this is quite a labour intensive dream and  I sometimes lose momentum.... If that happens, I end up thinking about why the drainpipe from the roof always overflows in heavy rain and pours water down the side of the house and how much I should think that matters and whether it might be the cause of the damp patch on the sitting room wall and whether I really ought to get up right now and see if I can push the hosepipe down the drain pipe and unblock it - if it is, indeed, blocked. 

That story is very unhelpful and usually wakes me up properly, at which point I realise that Buddy is sitting on my head, purring, and that John is snoring, a bit, and that there is a funny creeping noise downstairs and that actually it’s nearly 6 and I might as well go and shove a hose pipe about the place as lie here and worry about damp bricks.

All this is very inconvenient and I am sure will begin to ruin my looks and turn a Brain, already compromised, to Mush and that John will indeed, wake one day to see that there is absolutely nothing going on behind my bloodshot  eyes.

But, as I believe to the pits of my heart  ‘One crowded hour of life is worth an age without a name,’ - even at 5 in the morning - there is very little that can done about it.