Eyes wide shut: one paranormal experience and sleep is a distant memory
I’ve not been sleeping well. I blame Paranormal Activity. Yes I’m STILL going on about it. Since I watched it, I’ve had to sleep with the light on. Join me, why don’t you, as I talk you through a night in the Mason boudoir.
2200hrs. Decides early night is on the cards. Staggers to bedroom, performing the special removing-bra-without-removing-top trick women do (sorry but I can’t divulge the deets - akin to a Freemasonry ritual, we are permitted never to speak of it - we just do it). Spends ten minutes staring slack jawed into space performing the second part of the bra removing ritual - the under-boob scratch (am I right ladies?) Sweeps pile of books, magazines (including assorted astro-porn) and discarded items of clothing from the morning flirt with inappropriate cleavage revealing workwear on to floor. Clambers over hair straighteners and jaggy hairbrushes without injury. Climbs into bed. Plays with iPhone, downloading pointless apps and then deleting them almost immediately. The minutes tick by…
2337hrs.Gosh. Is that the time? Sets alarm. Switches light off. Remembers what happens in Paranormal Activity. Switches light on again. Convinces self needs wee. Fumbles for specs. Puts on reading specs which makes everything look magnified. Bumps into shelf in hall, setting off the speaking Shrek toy obtained during earlier guilty foray to McDonalds for Happy Meal. Shrek appears to be faulty and is stuck on a hellish loop of “HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY” and so on. And on and on. Opens back door and lobs Shrek up the garden to the mercy of urban foxes and other assorted nocturnal fauna. Abandons trip to lavatory. Returns to bed.
2353hrs. Closes eyes. Frets about overdraft. Opens eyes again. Closes eyes. Decides there are worse things in world than overdrafts. Frets about credit card debt instead. Tries to think happy thoughts. Tries to think of things that are worse than credit card debt and overdraft. Can’t think of any. Except paper cuts. There’s nothing worse than a paper cut. Even the sicky burp is trumped by the paper cut. Consumed by despair. Closes eyes. Opens eyes. Repeat to fade…
0230hrs. Wakes self up snoring. Definitely needs wee this time. Shambles out of bed, donning specs. Fails to notice cardigan (essential wear for the discerning forty-something; these summer evenings can be chilly and a bit tricksy to dress appropriately for) hanging off the doorknob. Cardigan gets caught under door and sets off bizarre set of circumstances, culminating in eye watering toe stub against strategically based wicker washing basket. Much swearing ensues. Decides there are worse things than paper cuts. The nocturnal toe stubbing is worse.
0300hrs. Back in bed. Fancies toast. Gets up. Makes toast. Doesn’t fancy it. Eats macaroon bar. Necks indigestion tablet in pre-emptive early morning macaroon bar induced heartburn. Shambles back to bed. Realises could never be a ninja, because ankles do weird clicky thing, which kinda gives the game away when trying to sneak up on anybody. Gutted about non-career as ninja; returns to bed. Closes eyes. Tries to count sheep. Randomly, starts to wonder what it would be like to be married to a spy.
0645hrs. Alarm goes off. Exhausted, gets out of bed, grateful for no evidence of any paranormal activity during night.
0730hrs.Hangs washing out. Finds Shrek on his back in garden, untouched by wildlife, who were probably justifiably freaked out by his faux Scottish catchphrases, as his middle of the night lob up the garden has somehow triggered him to add “I’M WARNING YE!” to his “HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY…”.
0800hrs. Drives to work, exhausted. And repeat.
