Being Awake

Sleep is a strange thing, or at least getting to sleep is. I used to think it was just the case of jumping over some hurdle that separates consciousness from unconsciousness, but I've since found out the brain slowly descends through a steady series of different conscious states; it's not simply a case of falling asleep.

Last night, my brain folded its arms and stamped its feet and refused to alter from any state other than fully awake. So I experienced that sort of netherworld that goes on when the time at night switches to single digits. It's amazing how much you become perspectively aware of all those tiny little noises that normally you'd just not hear.

And when, you're having difficulties in sleeping, do you get the voices? No - not the ones telling you to unleash havoc upon humankind with an AK47 and an egg-wisk. I don't hear those anymore, not since I gave up smoking dope, which was now a lifetime ago, even consigned to the pre-Poppy days. I am kidding. Poppy was my supplier. No, I am kidding. My sleep-deprived brain does not seem to be working properly, so all this may not make much sense. Back to those voices - they're sort of mumbling voices that never say anything intelligible or that you can make out clearly. Like listening to a party that's happening in a room several rooms separated from the one you're in. Not that I get invited to may parties these days. But the voices - I think I'm drifting off to sleep and these voices make me feel all warm and cuddly but there's something about them that means I can never completely concede to the comforting darkness of slumber. I wonder what they are? Perhaps, I hear dead people. I don't think so.

I've always had this insomnia thing, but like the career of Take That it comes and goes. I first suffered in my teens; night after night I'd lay thoroughly awake in bed. I can remember more four in the mornings around that time that I perhaps ought to. Strange, isn't it? When you're a youngster the day stops at around ten and then starts again around seven. Only when you're older do you become aware of those silly little hours, especially the totally useless ones of three and four in the morning. Three in the morning is the hour most people die. Which proves its uselessness, really.

The one gloriously failure of sleep I can remember was one damn bloody awful night that began one Tuesday and ended on Bonfire Night. I was going through a teenage angsty stage in my fictional tastes and was gorging on horror tome upon horror tome. Stephen King's, James Herbert's, Clive Barker's. Anything suitably dark and nasty and bloody and gutsy. My current read at the time was The Rats. Which is about some rats. Who are dark and nasty and bloody and gutsy. Although I was quite happy to read the book, I would not have it in my room, just in case (and I am not kidding here) The Rats someone escaped the pages of the story during the night and feasted on my ample boy-flesh. Honestly, I am not kidding. I think I was fourteen.

I was about two-thirds through The Rats when my dad informed me my bed was now the place for me to be, so I abandon the book in the lounge, climbed into my pjs then snuggled into my bed, thoroughly expecting a decent night's experience of delicate slumber. Five minutes into the night my dad exploded into my room, informed me that I'd left some $hit downstairs, and dumped Mr Herbet's supernatural, rattus rattus musings on my chest of drawers. Of course, for the rest of the night I was forced to stay awake, as staying awake easily thwarts all those entities with supernatural leanings. I'd certainly no wish to end up as several thousand pellets of rat pooh.

The next day I raced through to the end (and that horrible ending scene of some unlucky dude being nibbled to death by millions of the hirsute little buggers), and secreted the book in my schoolbag in readiness for its return to the school library.

Despite this experience, it took be a further six years before I realised I ought not to be reading horror stories as I did not perhaps possess a suitable temperament.

Plus, I eventually realised how ridiculous my fears were concerning a razor-toothed death by thousands of fictitious and over-carniverous rats. It didn't matter that the book was in my bedroom - the rats could easily gnaw through my bedroom door and devour me anyway, so what was the point of my worrying. Bizarre.

Last night I think I got to sleep around five and awoke around half past eight. So most of the today I have felt utter knackered, having flown my spaceship to a completely different planet. Urgh.

Colin is not helping. I expected me phoning the lady Sarah would stop him badgering me about phoning her. It has, but now he is badgering me about the "date". Did I require any refreshers on the ladyfolk? Do I know all the tricks, such as getting the lady to talk about herself as that is (apparently) what ladies like to do (my experiences of Sarah suggest this may not be an insurmountable hurdle by any measure) ? I've told Colin that I've no concerns over my chatty-uppy technique - not that I have such ulterior motives. I'm only meeting Sarah as she does seem inexplicably keen to expand our acquaintance beyond that initial eight minute fault. Besides, I like to consider myself the gentleman, and if a lady expresses an interest in my good self, then who am I to refuse?

But that's in the future, albeit an intermediate one. Tonight I am taking my son and his newly-confirmed girlfriend to a very informal meal at a decent Thai restaurant I know. Does this sound strange? I don't know. But it seems a nice thing to do, so I'm doing it. Seems reason enough to me.