I can't get no sleep...

The wind is howling outside, bin lids banging away, all manner of disconcerting noises filling the night. If like me you struggle to get your forty weeks at the best of times let alone when climate chaos is waging war on your ears, then read this....

(I actually composed most of this whilst babysitting - maybe I should do it more often! Especially if paid in caffeine and Percy pigs)




INSOMNIA


Twelve sheep, thirteen sheep, fourteen sheep, fifteen sheep, sixteen blasted sheep.
Shouldn't have left that work half done. Should have kept going whilst I was on a roll. Probably take twice as long now. Did I change that formula before I sent the email to accounts? Won't look good if I sent the wrong spreadsheet. Need to make the right impression on that new manager. You don't get a second chance to make a first impression and it would be just typical if I'd sent her the bollocks version.

Roll over, quick scratch. Twenty one sheep, twenty two sheep, twenty three sheep.
I should have just deleted the old file, then there would have been no doubt at all. So much to get done tomorrow, got that deadline coming up, and need to finish that presentation. God I could really do with getting to sleep right now, need to be on form. Baaaaa! So bloody tired yet so wired at the same time. I blame technology. Staring at a blasted screen all day long, computer at work, tv, iPad. Always switched on, always connected, no wonder its hard to switch off. That and the caffeine of course.

Thirty sheep, thirty one sheep, thirty two stinky sheep and a fluffy little lamb.
What to have for tea tomorrow night? Can't remember the date on that chicken, sure hope its jnoout of date already, don't want to be wasting anything but you don't really want to be eating out of date chicken, do you. Think it might have been the eighth, or maybe the ninth? What day is it today?

Sixty sheep, seventy sheep, eighty sheep. Why sheep rather than any other animal? Pigs say, or cows. Llamas even. You never hear of counting llamas, do you. One llama, two llama, three llama four. What is the plural of llama anyway? Is is llamas, llama, llamae even? Must remember to look that up in the morning. Funny creatures, llamas. Dopey faces with big, big teeth. Not scary teeth mind, not like a werewolf or a vampire or anything. Just big dirty gnashers in need of some goodental work. Werewolves, now they're a really funny creature. All that howling at the moon, barking mad I say. Hmmm, wonder who would win in a battle between a zombie and a werewolf? Zombies are lacking in brain power but then again maybe that's what gives them their strength. No valuable time spent thinking about, well, thinking anything. Just pure action, mindless instinct driven action. Must eat, must eat, must eat... NO! Stop it! Must sleep! Must sleep! Must sleep!

A stretch, an itch, roll over again.

Can hear noises from next door, a creaking floorboard, hushed voices, squeaking bedsprings. They're very private people, the family next door. Don't know much about them, don't even know the names of them other than Mr Kovak, and I'm not even sure if that's his first name or surname. It sounds as if someone is tapping rhythmically on the wall, slow at first then progressively faster. Bury head under pillow, try not to think about how long it’s been since this here bed has entertained any visitors. I wonder where he is now, what he's doing, who he's with. Wonder if he's thinking of me. Wonder if he knows how much I think of him.

Things next door seem to have gone quiet now. Probably fast asleep already, the jammy things. It's alright for some. Some just slip straight under the covers then, bang, out like a light for the next seven, eight, nine hours. None of this trying to visualise farm animals jumping over stiles or prancing through fields. No exes swimming round their heads, ex boyfriend's in sheep's clothing, incessantly bleating. No excel formulas dancing behind eyes screwed shut; VLOOKUP, SUMIF, IFISERROR. If mind less thoughts equals sleep and sleep equals greater than the product of all thoughts, then, well, what the hell am I doing? The sheep might not have been achieving much but surely milling over possibly impossible algebra is even worse. Deep breaths, turn, flip the pillow and rest head on the cool side.





Start again with the sheep, one, two, three, four. One hundred, one hundred and one, one hundred and two. There are sheep everywhere now, white sheep, black sheep, some even the colour of candyfloss. I'm a shepherdess, in a field, barefoot for some reason, bit weird given how much I love my shoes, but never mind. I'm tending to the flock, not entirely sure what this entails other than floating around in a long dress holding one of those long walking stick things with a curved handle, a crook, that's the word. All is good in my pastoral paradise, the sun is shining, little lambs are playing around my ankles. I could almost curl up under the shade of this lovely big tree and have a sleep, a little rest, well deserved I'm sure. Ah, at long last, bliss.

I'm just beginning to drift off when all of a sudden there's chaos in the flock. What the?! We're surrounded by large dogs with coal black eyes; but wait, these aren't ordinary dogs or foxes or anything I've ever seen before, they're - oh shit! Werewolves! I hit them with the big stick thing and as they start retreating I feel a real sense of achievement until I realise that it's not me that scared them away, but the army of crazed zombies heading towards us. I try to bat them away but it's no good, the sheep have all fled and its just me now, the tasty pig in the middle. My questionable stick handling skills keep them back for a while but then, inevitably, I'm overpowered. The zombie that leans towards me, teeth bared, looks strangely familiar, although I can't at first figure out why. Then I realise that behind the blood and glazed expression lie the distorted but just about recognisable features of the new finance manager, Toni. She clobbers me around the head with her calculator whilst licking her lips hungrily. Never realised she was that way inclined.

As darkness descends the last thing I recall is thinking how this all serves me right for not checking my work more thoroughly. If only.....

Beep beep, beep beep, beep beep

6.30am already? But I've not even...

Oh.

My rest may not have been peaceful, but, hey, could it be worse. At least it didn't REALLY end in pieces.....

Mr Power

This is a short piece I wrote a couple of months back for a writers group session on the topic of 'Mr Power' - a 'bedtime story' of sorts......

Mr Power

By the time Marian belatedly sidled on the bandwagon it seemed like the world and his wife had been swept off their feet by the enigmatic Mr Power. Even Doris at the WI, who had celebrated her 90^th birthday some years ago, was a card carrying advocate of his work. “You really must read it, my dear. Turns out that even this old dog isn’t beyond learning a few new tricks; whoever would have thought it?” Doris turned her gaze lovingly towards the side of the room where her fourth husband was loudly snoring; his nose hairs fluttering with each shallow breath like grass blowing in the wind

“Honestly; you wouldn’t believe how things are for me and Ernie in the bedroom these days; I only wish that that Mr Power had been around 70 years ago!”

Marian raised an eyebrow but kept her scepticism to herself. She’d learned by now that there was no point in so much as challenging the converted; better to let them evangelise away whilst diverting her thoughts to something else; say the latest plot twist in her favourite Scandinavian crime drama or what she needed to pick up in this week’s big shop. As a small trail of drool crept down Ernie’s chin and pooled in his jowls; Marian wondered exactly how much benefit he could really be obtaining from Mr Power’s teaching.

For months it had seemed as if she couldn’t turn on the TV or open a newspaper or magazine without that blasted book being mentioned. She’d always like to think herself something of an intellectual; certainly not the kind of person who was swept up by popular culture. Her daughter Penelope had on multiple occasions accused her of being a snob, but Marian herself hated that word, preferring the altogether more genteel ‘discerning’.  In her experience if something was wholeheartedly embraced by the masses that wasn’t generally an indication of merit; more a suggestion that it was pitched at a level suitable for those with the most rudimentary level of education.

The main point she had grasped around the phenomenon was that although readers were encouraged to rhapsodise to their family and friends about how great the book was, it was strictly forbidden to speak of the nature of Mr Power’s philosophy or methods. There were a few key expressions that she’d heard time and time again, but little beyond what sounded like new age mumbo jumbo. Nonetheless as she went about her day to day business she found herself studying the expressions and body language of everyone in sight; trying to figure out who had ‘harnessed the power of their Sacred Spaces’. Julie in the Post Office certainly had, a well thumbed copy permanently sat on the counter so that she could ingest snippets in between dishing out pensions and renewing tax discs. Marian had only gone into the branch to buy a book of stamps, but it was a good fifteen minutes before she re-emerged into the sunlight after making the schoolboy error of asking Julie if she was enjoying the book. “Granted it’s dark;” Julie had whispered after ten minutes of effectively saying yes in as many different ways as possible; “but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.  I didn’t think it was for me but I was so wrong. I didn’t feel comfortable with all that ‘restraint’ business at first; and as for the blindfolds; well I’d only come across them at kids’ parties before. But once you’ve experienced that kind of pleasure, believe me you won’t be able to go back to your old ways.”

On the day on which the headlines proclaimed that Mr Power’s Bedroom Secrets was now the highest selling paperback of all time; Marian decided that she’d been biting the bullet for long enough. Even though she knew that she could obtain a copy for half the price in the supermarket; she made her way to the only local independent bookshop that had managed to weather both the recession and the exponential growth of certain internet retailers. She slowly browsed the store, marvelling in the fact that this small room contained more books than she would ever be able to read in her lifetime. It was a shame that most of these works would never reach a wide audience; alas these days it seemed that the majority of people preferred to pick up their reading material in the same basket as bananas and loo rolls. It wouldn’t be so bad if the mass merchants were peddling literary masterpieces; but a textbook for optimal bedroom performance becoming the nation’s favourite talking point? So much for traditional British reserve.

Eventually her path reached a small crowd of customers and in the middle of them a table piled high with the volume that was currently outselling everything else in the entire shop added together. Fingering the cover of the infamous tome she felt in spite of herself a frisson of excitement. She doubted that the eponymous Mr Power had been christened with that moniker; however the unmistakable red and yellow cover probably wouldn’t make the same impact if it were to bear the name of Smith, Jones or Brown.

“Go on, buy it;” urged a bearded man of undeterminable age, who seemed to take the very fact that she was holding the book as reason enough to lay his clammy hand on her arm. “It’ll change your life, honestly it will. Since I opened that book I’ve never looked back; my partner even says it’s taken 20 years off me! And it’s not just for the bedroom either; we’ve been at it in the sitting room, on a flight to Alicante; why, I’ve even given it a go in the office!”

Marian snatched her arm away. The man had exceptionally hairy arms that reminded her of a baboon; she wondered whether his partner actually liked the fact that he looked like he belonged in a zoo, or whether he had some other qualities which compensated for it. His endorsement was almost enough to make her flee the shop empty handed, but with the memory of her daughter’s words echoing around her mind – “Don’t be a snob, mother” she reluctantly walked to the sales counter and handed over her £8.99.

That night Marian retired early; carrying her brown paper shopping bag upstairs whilst her husband watched Match of the Day. She slipped into her best silk nightie and dimmed the lights, plumping up the pillows before slipping under the polyester duvet. Time to see what all the fuss was about.

“This book will teach you to harness the power of your most sacred space. Through a combination of techniques you will achieve the status of master practitioner and your bedroom will become a temple devoted to the most precious activity we can experience both as individuals or within a couple; pure, uninterrupted sleep.”

Sleep? SLEEP? Marian laughed out loud. She’d been hoping for athletics beneath the sheets, a few ideas to spice things up after a lifetime of the monotony of monogamy. She felt like she’d been had, conned, but she could hardly demand her money back for lack of sauce.

“John, are you coming up?” she shouted. “Fancy a cuddle?”

“Just watching the last match, love;” came the reply from downstairs. “I’ll be up in five.”

Five minutes turned to fifteen but John was sure that Marian wouldn’t mind; she could sit there in bed with a book for hours; reading had always been her favourite pastime.

“Alright love?” he called out as he checked the doors and turned off the sockets; but there was no response. Upon entering the bedroom he found Marian laid on her back with her eyes closed and a blissful smile on her face; and at her side was a copy of that book that everyone seemed to be reading these days. He carefully picked it up, trying his hardest not to disturb her, as Marian was a light sleeper at the best of times and it was most unusual her to drift off without tossing and turning for hours. He climbed in beside her and flicked off the light; a smile on his face. Cuddles could wait; after twenty years of marriage to a fidgety insomniac, sleep, blessed uninterrupted sleep, was the best bedroom activity in his book.