The calm before the storm

There are certain hours which hold magic.

A favourite of mine is 8-9 am. Usually having tried to get ahead of myself for about four hours already, I luxuriate. It’s quiet, and if the phone rings I know it’s either a friend, one of my sisters or a wrong number before day’s business hell brakes loose. It’s the equivalent of turning over in bed when you realise you’ve beaten the alarm clock and you don’t have to get up, yet- a distant memory.

I am not supposed to admire Margaret Thatcher (which I do). If she has contributed one thing to my life it’s hope over the experience of lack of sleep. If you can run a country on four hours a night anything is possible for me.

Admittedly, there is some unsettling research on effects on one’s brain and other bodily functions when not getting enough sleep. It’s great isn’t it? Something else to keep you awake.

So, next time a police officer stops you and asks you whether you had one too many, just say: “No, I had some (hours) too few.” (Similar symptons without registering on the Richter Scale of the breathalyzer).

It’s 8.35. Wishing you a bright and bushy tailed day.

U