Bedd1

"As soon as you wake up they come blundering in
Like puppies or importunate children;
What was a landscape emerging from the mist
Becomes at once a disordered garden.

And the  mess they trail with them! Embarrasements,
Anger, lust, fear- in fact  the  whole pig pen;
And who’ll clean it up? No hope for sleep now-
Just heave yourself out, make the tea and give in."


Dick Davis.

I couldn’t sleep last night. The palm of my right hand was itchy and slumber impossible. And so I lay there scratching and dwelling and wanting. Watching the luminous red numbers tick by on the other side of the room  and thinking of things  I should have done and blushing at the things  I shouldn’t have.

1.27. Funny the things you thing about when you should be asleep. Like  why no-one has ever explained to me what the the whole birds and bees thing is about.  (I mean plainly  I understand the  mechanics of reproduction, but I cannot see the parallells between that, sparrows and buzzy buzzy bees.)   Whether Tony Blair was sleeping well for the first time since  he made the mistake of volunteering himself for Prime Minister.  What that man meant when he said he thought I was too much, too alive, too terrifying to ever let himself  fall in love with.   The name of the tiniest country in  the world that is really a part of Italy.  Whether my Mum was lying awake too.  Worrying. (Though I can hardly bear it for her). Nocturnal hunger for rice crispies in chocolate stained milk. How it must feel to wake up next to somebody who’s body is a foriegn land to yours. What my Darling, dying Uncle dreams about as he sleeps his way to goodbye…

3.46. The birds were singing.  Perhaps then I was asleep. A trance like state where nothing makes sense.  Two me’s standing  like speech  marks either side of a sentence I wish wasn’t true.    Scenes from a rude film I have never watched. A startling sudden fall down stairs with someone elses baby in my arms. Crinkly notes pressed into the palm of my hand. A creaking noise I don’t recognise. Guilt, glee and a wet finger stroking the rim of a glass till a gentle hum fills a room decorated in muted Mauny roses.

Sleep. Perchance.

And then 5.51. Something.  Sitting up stark naked looking  through twelve little panes of  glass on a morning that has come to soon.  Cream chenille  curtains puddled on the floor  because the curtain pole has fallen down again. Watching the lady from the big flamingo house across the road being stretchered into an ambulance for the third time in three weeks. Seeing silent flashing blue lights decorating my ceiling and feeling a sudden urge to stumble down the stairs, hold her hand and ask her who she used to be…

..Heave yourself out, make the tea and give in.