Sleepless

Another terrible night's sleep, which I know is about as engaging a first line as "not much to say today" which we discussed some time ago as an illegal start to a blog (see househusbandnot Masterclass In Blog Writing Chapter 3 August 2006). But in the spirit of posting every day of the week....

...last night mrs househusbandnot went to bed around 10.30pm so was left to my own devices for an hour, which turned into another hour and another and another until it was 4.45am and too light to sleep in the sitting room sofa where I had parked myself on the sofa for the night not wanting to wake up mrs househusbandnot and figuring - wrongly - that night-time TV would make me sleep. (I ended up watching Midnight Run, that great road movie with Robert De Niro and that bloke who went on to make loads of dumb movies about a giant dog. Actually, I ended up watching the end of it and then the beginning of it with the Channel 4 +1 hour option. I watched a bit of Hannibal too, but it was soooo bad it really woke me up. I'm sorry but I just don't believe that wild boar eat people, or is that just me who doesn't make that leap of faith/fact/fiction? ) And as is always the case on these sleepless nights, I had just finished a book but did not have the energy or imagination to start another one. In the olden days, I would have got up, smoked a load of cigarettes and maybe drunk a glass of scotch or something to make me sleep. But I don't smoke anymore, and am now old enough to realise that a glass of scotch at 4.00am is probably a bad idea. Anyway, we didn't have any in the house, so maybe it was availability rather than maturity that stopped me having a night/morning cap.

On not sleeping: why do feel so dusty when you don't sleep, and why is it then in the middle of the night that all those strange little irks and guilts come to haunt you? I spent at least an hour berating myself for a time when my granny, who was living with us, bought me a small football and my sister really told me off saying I was forcing our granny to use her pension money on stupid stuff for me. I'm guessing I was about five, my sister seven and my granny well granny and pension-receiving age. I punctured the ball on a rose bush a few days later, deliberately because it was making me feel so bad. It had been more of a small beach ball than a real football that I had really wanted. I think about this incident far too often.

Now feeling very half-life and trying to get my head around going to see a friend I used to work with to see if they can give me some tips about any freelance work out there. Not feeling in a very selling/give me work mode, but will get there I guess. I need to.