I don’t sleep well at the moment. The plague that wiped me out last week was of the cold-and-cough variety, which is one of those that goes from minor inconvenience to major inconvenience when you strap a pressurised breathing mask to your face every evening. The moment the breathing mask pressurised, I would start a coughing fit and pull it off.
The cold part of the equation is largely gone, but the cough lingers. And so I sleep in two hours bursts, packing in as much shut-eye as I can before the coughing starts and I wake up. I get, maybe, six hours of interrupted sleep a night that way. Enough to function, but not enough to be particularly happy.
Thursdays I go to work. For the next two weeks, they are days when eight hours of work is followed by a two hour workshop. I still have to wedge writing in there, find the time to get the manuscript for Float up to 2,000 words before I go to bed. Naturally, I was afflicted with horrific insomnia when I went to bed at a reasonable hour last night, and did not actually sleep for several hours.
This is my starting point for the day.
And so I rolled out of bed at six-fifteen in the AM, humming the chorus to Rufus Wainwright’s Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk. I showered and ate my first complete breakfast in nearly a week. I drank coffee. I realised how much I’d missed coffee. I put on clothes and fired up youtube and set up a slightly maudlin, I-do-not-want-to-be-up-this-early playlist.
I listened to Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk three times in a row.
And then I started writing.
PROGRESS ON FLOAT
Boom. Time to go watch the first episode of Cleverman.