It’s been a while since I’ve looked at the clock and 4:30am isn’t an exciting time to be awake.
There’s no plane to catch, no conference to anticipate or new experience to enjoy.
With an inward groan, I realise 4:30am merely signifies another hour that I’ve been awake listening to Zac gently snore, hearing the covers moving every hour or so as he changes to a more comfortable position.
He says he can’t sleep unless I’m there.
What I think he really means is he can’t get to sleep I’m not there – not so secretly he enjoys having the bed to himself. I don’t blame him, at 6’6 there’s a lot to spread out.
The spare bed in our new pad is covered with papers that need filing and washing that needs ironing, or at the very least putting away.
I’ve been slack.
I’ve been half doing chores and as I looked despairingly at the spare bed, I wondered if, had I only ‘got on with it’ on my last day off, would I have managed to get back to sleep in a different bed?
I know the answer is ‘no’ of course, but the thought troubles me, none the less.
I’m currently snuggled on the sofa, hood on my fluffy dressing gown pulled over my head, duvet pulled up high over my chest.
I tried dozing here for 40 minutes until being aware of my inability to go to sleep became too annoying and I relented, gave in and pulled open my laptop.
That was 2 hours ago, I figured I’d have tired myself out by now, but here I am, alert as ever.
I’ve rolled out my aching muscles and I’ve tried all the relaxing techniques Mum used to soothe me through when sleep eluded me as a youngster.
Still nothing. If anything it served to have the opposite effect.
And yet, I don’t always mind being awake at this hour.
There’s something magical about ‘doing things’ when the rest of the world is resting, I feel like I’ve achieved something with my borrowed time, somehow starting the day ahead of myself.
My usually deafening thoughts seem to quiet in the eerie silence that sweeps the night in the witching hour.
I’m clenching my jaw again.
5 more minutes and I’ll go back to bed.