Having once wondered about the legitimacy of insomniacs – why didn’t they just stop faffing about and go to sleep? – I now sympathise as, unfortunately, I have now joined the club.
I never sought membership, but here I am at 2am writing this column, having tried to kip since 11pm.
Mr F could sleep through an earthquake: in fact he’d probably be rescued from the rubble in his bed, still fast asleep and snoring.
In recent years we’ve swapped roles. I was the one who could nap on trains, planes, coaches and cars while everyone around me were
bleary-eyed, yawning and longing for some shut-eye. I could go to bed early or late, sleep after coffee or booze, no prob.
An afternoon siesta made no difference either. Dozing anywhere, anytime, in any language was second nature.
It’s now 3am and I must be driving Mr F mad. When you’re in a hotel (as we are) and it’s a Premier Inn rather than a penthouse suite at the Savoy, all movement is shared, every sound magnified.
Making a cuppa only yards from our bed ends in a crescendo of steam, the kettle angrily rattling on its base: enough to wake the comatose.
I take my book into the freezing cold bathroom for two hours, only returning to the warm bedroom when my toes are turning blue and my back aching from a prolonged spell sitting on the loo – well it was that or lie in the bath. I’m wearing a long scarf with just my eyes poking out of the top. I look ridiculous.
I pace the dark room in the hope of a sudden onset of fatigue, then launch myself back into bed.
Shock! Mr F has been replaced by a dashing outlaw – or rather he has donned a black mask, bought at a service station on our journey here, in anticipation of my insomnia.
I try to make my hysterics noiseless but fail miserably. Zorro is no longer a sleeping partner. He turns on the light, gives me a despairing look, but then joins me to read the early hours away: the latest member – or victim – of the insomniac club.
Any suggestions or cures will be very welcome. Email me! bmailbarbara@gmail.com
