Not fit out
I'm too tired to check back, but I'd be very surprised if I haven't made at least a passing reference to my insomnia in an earlier post. Or five.
If I am ever going to start hating Pop, it will be because, at the advanced age of forty-cough, he has retained the sleep patterns of a small child. He goes to bed when he is tired; he falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow; his brow remains unfurrowed by bad dreams; and he wakes up refreshed and ready to start a new day. (In fact, I would go so far as to assert that he is damn' near intolerably bouncy first thing in the morning.)
How unfair is that?
Back in the real world, however, in a break from its regular insomnia pattern, my own system has plumped - just for a change - for me being able to drop off to sleep no bother. This sounds good, no?
Well, it might be, were it not for the fact that, every night for the last two weeks, I have had dreams of such frenetic vividness that they have woken me up several times a night, and I get out of bed in the morning even more exhausted than I was the night before.
I don't think waking up in the morning is really supposed to come as a relief from the rigours of the night.
I'll not burden you with the details of the dreams in question. (Suffice it to say that many have been extremely distressing, and those that weren't have just been incredibly hard work.) No, the point of this blog entry is to recount the Terrible Things which can happen to an Editor who is Too Tired To Cope.
Take Thursday, for instance. I had to go for my quarterly diabetes check-up in the morning. It wasn't until I tried to flag down a large, red blur that I realised I had left the house without any glasses on. Something I last did about ten years ago on my way into work, spending the rest of the day developing a pounding headache as a result.
But that's not all.
Oh no.
It gets worse.
Thursday - as any fule kno - is acupuncture day.
So, there I was, standing at the bus stop. Feeling a) very cold, and b) very glad that I was wearing my snuggly, purple, faux-fur coat. And I happened to glance down. And I realised, to my utter horror, that the stick I was leaning my not-inconsiderable weight on wasn't purple. Purple glasses; purple earrings; purple coat.
Red stick.
My reputation lies in tatters....
If I am ever going to start hating Pop, it will be because, at the advanced age of forty-cough, he has retained the sleep patterns of a small child. He goes to bed when he is tired; he falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow; his brow remains unfurrowed by bad dreams; and he wakes up refreshed and ready to start a new day. (In fact, I would go so far as to assert that he is damn' near intolerably bouncy first thing in the morning.)
How unfair is that?
Back in the real world, however, in a break from its regular insomnia pattern, my own system has plumped - just for a change - for me being able to drop off to sleep no bother. This sounds good, no?
Well, it might be, were it not for the fact that, every night for the last two weeks, I have had dreams of such frenetic vividness that they have woken me up several times a night, and I get out of bed in the morning even more exhausted than I was the night before.
I don't think waking up in the morning is really supposed to come as a relief from the rigours of the night.
I'll not burden you with the details of the dreams in question. (Suffice it to say that many have been extremely distressing, and those that weren't have just been incredibly hard work.) No, the point of this blog entry is to recount the Terrible Things which can happen to an Editor who is Too Tired To Cope.
Take Thursday, for instance. I had to go for my quarterly diabetes check-up in the morning. It wasn't until I tried to flag down a large, red blur that I realised I had left the house without any glasses on. Something I last did about ten years ago on my way into work, spending the rest of the day developing a pounding headache as a result.
But that's not all.
Oh no.
It gets worse.
Thursday - as any fule kno - is acupuncture day.
So, there I was, standing at the bus stop. Feeling a) very cold, and b) very glad that I was wearing my snuggly, purple, faux-fur coat. And I happened to glance down. And I realised, to my utter horror, that the stick I was leaning my not-inconsiderable weight on wasn't purple. Purple glasses; purple earrings; purple coat.
Red stick.
My reputation lies in tatters....
The Editor
posted by
Lady Bracknell | Saturday, December 15, 2007
5 Comments:
Are you on any particularly weird medication right now?
Because my diazepam dreams... they are *really* special.
Like, my dreams turn into Stephen King novels.
Vivid is scary.
Oh no! Lol! The HORRORS! (I think I would have been equally mortified by the way.)
I couldn't help thinking, as I read your post... have you by any chance recently added any new supplements or meds to your diet? I was once having uncharacteristically vivid and bizarre dreams and it turned out to be from an over sensitivity to vitamin B6. I stopped the B6 and the bizarre vivid dreams instantly disappeared.
No, no new meds.
I get runs of this sort of thing occasionally.
The first (and worst) nightmare was triggered by me having been so angry a couple of weeks ago. And my subconscious takes very little persuading that treating sleepy-time as an emotional roller coaster is fun.
Ho hum.
It'll settle down again eventually.
Ah yes. I too feel the shame when I realise I have not appropriately colour-coordinated my stick with my wardrobe. (Although these days, using crutches, I don't get that opportunity much anymore. But I still try, when I can.)
Hmm. Let's see now:
Scuffed steel-frame spectacles;
Blue checked shirt;
Indescribable green fleece;
Black jeans;
Brown shoes;
Red socks;
Brown stick.
Yup. Everything appears to be in order. All pockets full of keys and emergency string, elastic bands and an empty matchbox. Ready to face the day....
Hey my stick matches my shoes. Must change into white trainers.
Aaahhh! That's better, Be safe, be seen.
Honestly editor. Yore such a gurl! and a swot. Chiz chiz..
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