Kip sake: Lindsey is dreaming of a decent nap. Pic: Hannibal Hanschke REUTERS
Another night of troubled sleep. Followed by another day of crabbitness, gritty eyes, and makeup which refuses to stick to my face and slides off, exhausted with the effort of adhering to my peellywally sleep-deprived skin.
I’m a troubled genius y’see. Think Amy Winehouse. Or rather imagine an Amy Winehouse who can’t sing and who’s eaten another couple of Amy Winehouses and you’re about there.
Ach, I’m not really a troubled genius. I’m just stressed with the effort of clearing out cupboards and packing stuff for the move. I’m even having my stress dreams, where I’m naked and all about me are fully clad. My stress dreams also include driving around Glasgow, which in real life gives me the massive heeby jeebies anyway.
I awoke at several points during the night. I don’t think I actually slept at all to be honest. I feel as if my head was actually hovering an inch off the pillow with tension all the livelong night.
The first time I woke up was due to a really irritating song which had earwormed me yesterday and which played on my internal jukebox all day and obviously well into the night. I don’t want to think about it now or it will earworm me again all day today. Too late. It’s there. Damn.
Yesterday I idled away a couple of hours buying stuff I don’t understand researching gardening on the Internet. I fancied myself as a bit of a Felicity Kendal. I woke up at 3am thinking about planting potatoes - a fantastic idea which popped into my head for no real reason yesterday.
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I’ve never grown anything in my life except children. I’ll never be Felicity Kendal. Who am I kidding? But it didn’t stop me fantasising about reaping the benefits of my greenfingeryness come the… umm… Summer… or whenever one harvests potatoes. See? I don’t even know that. I managed to push the gardening fantasy out of my head and fell back asleep.
Next time I woke up, at about 5.30, the birds were singing, damn them. This sound always reminds me of my younger days when I would do the walk of shame home from a wild night out (in Dumfries? Hmm…) with shoes in hand, and dignity left back a taxi ride away that I couldn’t afford, so was forced to endure the walk of shame.
Those were the days of the shaggy perm which I would “wet” in the morning and fluff up with an afro comb (I have photographic evidence, sadly) and by the time I got to work, my hair would be frozen solid and bits of it would have snapped off, causing much tut-tutting amongst the older members of staff in the Post Office.
We didn’t feel the cold then did we? I mused over those halcyon days for a while before finally giving up and going downstairs for a cup of tea and embracing the day.
I need non-drug related remedies for sleeplessness please. I can’t bear another night of insomnia and its after effects. And don’t say lavender. It smells of old ladies.
