I think that I am allergic to Sunday nights. No matter what I do, it is rare that I sleep properly and Monday mornings are consequently more of a chore than they need to be because I am tired before I even start.
Last night I was hunkered down for sleep by about 1am (sounds late, but I usually turn in around an hour later), but back at the PC faffing around by 1.40 having lain there unable to doze off for 40 minutes. Thereafter I recall looking at the clock at around three and then, after a really rather odd dream, which for once, I can partially remember, I woke up again just a few minutes after 4am with a bit of a headache. So I got up, wandered around in the pre-sunrise glimmer, checked my email and had a smoke. By 4.25 I had managed to scare the bejasus
out of ellefurtle
by switching on the bedside lamp to find the paracetamol as it had fallen from the bedside table into the deep gloom below as yet un-illuminated by the dawn. Despite the accusing look I got (followed by further snores), the tablets and a glass of squash did the trick and the headache disappeared, so I was able to snatch another three hours or so sleep before the alarm.
But I really did not want to get up at that point.
The annoying thing, see, is that I deliberately made sure that I was out of bed before 10.30 yesterday morning, that being about the maximum lie in I can safely have on a Sunday commensurate with any sleep at all on Sunday night. I may as well have lolled around until midday for all the good it did.
I wonder if this is all to do with the sudden influx of vitamins into my system. Thursday and Friday both saw me eating salads for my main meal. Saturday was a salad sandwich with a bit of chicken and yesterday was a baked potato with coleslaw and grated cheese. Mind you, I did rather overdo it with the grated cheese, ellefurtle
had a reasonable helping thereof, but I had An unreasonably large helping (sometimes you just have to tell yourself to stop grating, already!). It was very tasty, though.
Now I come to think of it, that amount of cheese may well have contributed to my disturbed sleep, though we finished eating by about 9.30, so it would be a bit of a stretch...
Annoyingly, in the dream stakes I find myself able to remember the beginning and end of the dream, but not the middle bit. I am lucky, I guess, to remember even that much; my (sleeping) nights are usually just dreamless voids which disappear in the blink of an eye. At the beginning, I was in a dark bar or club with some (unidentified) friends when I recognised (of all people) Angel (David Boreanaz) looking somewhat perturbed. This led to a request for help, a rather film-noire episode in a dilapidated hotel in which unidentified friends and I escaped by the skin of our teeth (from what I don’t know). One of us having mislaid his jacket and me having lost my mobile phone. At some point the friends thinned out in n umber until it was suddenly romney
and me trying to get a night bus home from an unidentified part of central London. We missed the bus and ended up taking a colonel_maxim
short cut, which led to me waking up with a headache just about the time the three of us were strung out along a dark country road arguing about whether to go back or to continue. I think my brain rebelled after one non-sequitur too many.
Waking up before finding out what it’s all about. That could be a parable of my life.