Wonders of Sleep
To sleep, perchance …OK, so Shakespeare got there first. I’m not apologising, just rejoicing in a renewed acquaintanceship with it. I remember my mum saying that it got progressively harder to sleep as you got older, so this is what I thought I had been suffering from.
You turn the light off later and later, then you wake up at one or two o’clock in the morning and can’t get back to sleep. The cares of the day run round your mind. The cares of the week seep through the edges. And don’t get me started on the cares of a lifetime.
Until, that is, you go on your first fortnight’s holiday in some 14 years, and side stepping any attempts by the mayor to blockade the port, end up on a goat’s cheese farm close to Boulogne. As I sit here in the garden, the goats – led by Billy Goat Gruff – are alternately eyeballing my dog and frolicking in the long grass.
But I digress: sleep. It has reappeared with a vengeance. If we can make it to bed beyond nine pm we are doing well. And the yawns start after lunch, even if no alcohol has been consumed. There aren’t even any trips to the loo at night. And it’s not just us: it’s the dog, too! She has to be manhandled into the garden at night as she’s in a deep slumber and we have to wake her in the morning. Unheard of.
24/7 roadworks at Hogarth Roundabout for six weeks-plus this summer haven’t helped, without any signs of compensation from the Highway Authority, compounded by late night parties around the neighbourhood. So it’s hardly surprising that we’re both wrecks. But it’s a bit worrying that a goat’s cheese farm might be the solution. Or maybe I am just getting old(er).