While Hamlet was thinking of death, I am thinking only of sleep. Never mind the Diana conspiracy theory, what about the international conspiracy to keep me awake at night? It is now 5.30am and I have given up on sleep for the night.
I was woken at 1am (some wooden letter falling off Olivia’s door), 3am (Bea throwing up) and 5am (Leo wetting his bed). You have to admit the regularity is suspicious.
Johnny Depp once said that when you get to a certain age you begin to view sleep as you once viewed hallucinogenic drugs. I was never one for hallucinogenic drugs but I get his point. Nowadays if I do manage to sleep through the night I wake up feeling like I am on drugs.
I leave for London today. For the first time ever I am driving. A friend and I are driving her car back because she wants to sell it. I have not been looking forward to the journey, I prefer the train and twelve hours in a car is far too long for anyone. But at least while Virginia drives I may be able to catch up on some sleep.
I defy them to find me on the A75 and try to stop me.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007
To B2065 or not to B2065: That is the question:
Whether ‘tis a smarter idea to suffer
The traffic jams and speed traps of outrageous fortune,
Or to take a break at Little Chef with tummy troubles,
And pop a Qwells to end them? To belch: to doze;
No more: and as Virginia steers us to the end
The sales pitch of a thousand natural Arthur Daleys
That is the dodgy motor heir to, ‘tis clapped out Darlin’
Not worth a pony. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to find a nice little second hand Volvo,
Low mileage, full MOT, narmean? Ay, there’s the rob.
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