Zzzz

I could be bound in a nutshell
And count myself king of infinite space
I don't sleep well any more.

Strangely enough, I am not much affected by the things you'd think would be a problem. When eight people arrive and find that their natural aptitude with keys has been inexpicably diminished, I can stand up, be-gown myself, opne the door, nod sagely while they say something, close and lock the door, and return to bed without leaving a cozy half-consciusness. I've been Brother Doorkeeper before. A housemate debating the pros and cons of their significant other on a mobile? Not a problem. East Oxford's pro-active and paranoid anti-masts lobby guaranteed that there were several years when mobile conversations were only available to someone supine on the second flight of stairs. Those things are nothing to me now.

In an effort to eliminate other complications, I now forbid myself all of the following after six: tea, coffee, beer, wine, rum, Baileys Irish Cream, all dairy products, chocolate and industry. (Food and cogitation are next on the list). So far, this has not helped.

You know what I blame? Sodium orange and the continental climate of the east of the country. I need the world to be darker and colder. And less orange. Durham is in the north, and this leads me to believe that it may fulfil all of these conditions.

Perhaps the main reason is that seven days a week, I am awoken by an alarm. This leads me to remember my dreams, and I hate rememberingg my dreams. They vary between breathtakingly trivial¹ to the unsettlingly bizairre².

Maybe I ought to join the hippies and get mself a sunrise alarm.

1. The canonical example is a dream in which I have just gotten out of bed and am going about my morning routine. Troublesome!

2. E.G. The bombing of Dresden, a cubist take on baking cakes in a tenement in Dresden.