The world has shrunk to a series of babysecretions and attempts to detect sleeping patterns in apparent randomness. The Middle and Morning Watches are the toughest, though even the Dog has a bite. My night is coloured headache-grey. But it’s amazing how much good a two-hour doze can do you. Thatcher used to run the country on one ten-minute nap per fortnight of course. Mind you Churchill used to spend every afternoon kipping in his jim-jams while Nursey read to him from Sense and Sensibility, so everyone’s different.
It’s also amazing how quickly you become immune to the babysecretion element. Immune is wrong, you become fascinated. Ooh that’s a good one. The hard part is actually getting up in the middle of the Dog Watch to change the nappy; its contents are perfectly manageable. I suggested to Mrs Brit that we play Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock (thanks Nige) to decide whose turn it is. That proved too mentally taxing for daysleepers. Unfortunately so did normal Rock-Paper-Scissors. Even tossing a coin was too complicated so in the end we agreed that whoever lets out the biggest sigh doesn’t have to do it.
No really we’re loving it mostly. I don’t want to go back to work, though next week I must. It being the school holidays, an ice cream van is cruising the area. He’s playing O Sole Mio (the English translation of which is of course “Just one Cornetto”) to lure the kiddies, but something’s wrong with his music machine and it’s playing at about two-thirds the correct speed. This makes it sound mournful and heartbreaking. How can anyone be so cold-hearted as to refuse to buy one of the poor man’s ice creams? I picture him weeping gently into his cones and feel a strong urge to rush out to console him, perhaps by purchasing a Fab. My protective instincts must be over-secreting, I think.