Tag Archives: tiredness

Weekend Break

Sorry, I took the weekend off.

My friend GoldenEyes, the other half of my department, has been out sick for ten days now with neck and shoulder problems and I have been doing both of our jobs. I’m not complaining, she had to do the same during the many times when I was having blackout tests/getting a pacemaker/going mental, but I’ve been in early every morning and coming home late each night and I didn’t realise just how tired I was until yesterday morning when I woke up at 10.30 and then this morning when I woke at 11.53, thus only just qualifying for it being this morning at all.

I then slept the entire way through Stoke v Spurs on the TV, a match which, according to the hysterically excited commentary which occasionally seeped into my brain, seems to have been one of the great football matches of the season.

I’ve managed to do posts all week since they are written on the bus journeys to and from work but yesterday and today I was just too tired to turn on my computer and write something, and the fact that I have turned on my computer and written this does not invalidate this excuse in any way.

I haven’t spent the entire weekend asleep, I was at Tingirl’s end-of-term Drama School showcase and was enthralled yet again at the talent of her and the rest of her troupe, who are by now not just a class but a closely-knit group of friends working and socialising together.

I haven’t done Sidey’s Weekend Theme yet, though I do (finally) have an idea for it and it will be done on the bus trips tomorrow, and the Weekly Photo Challenge (Celebration) will appear on Tuesday, for reasons that will become evident on Tuesday.

Well, that’s all, I just wanted to say hi.

It’s seven minutes to eight, and time I went to bed.

Self Criticism

It’s the first week of the month so I have to work, so I didn’t get home last night until after nine. I should have just had my dinner and gone to bed, but that makes me feel like I really have no life, so I sat up and watched TV. Ireland had just beaten England off the pitch at cricket and Celtic and Rangers had just beaten each other both on and off the pitch in a sport that vaguely resembled soccer, so there was plenty to keep me entertained on Sky Sports News (the Irish cricket team, by the way, all took part in the Shave or Dye before the game, though none of them went for bright blue). I ended up going to bed at midnight, even though I’ve to get up at 6.25 each morning.

So I was really tired when I got on the bus this morning but took out my little netbook anyway because bus journeys are now when I do my writing. I had a vague plan to write about the EU’s daft ruling about car insurance, but as I started I found that I couldn’t think of anything interesting to say. Still I kept going almost robotically (after all, I am almost a robot), but wasn’t really enjoying it much.

Then at one stage I had to type the phrase “to do business”. I typed it, moved on a couple of words and then looked back.

Instead of “to do business” I had typed “tediousness”, all as one word, spelled correctly.

I didn’t finish the post. When your own subconscious tells you that you’re being boring, it’s time to stop.

Sleepy Head

Because I get into work first most mornings, people think that I’m a morning person.

I most certainly am not. During my teens, twenties and even thirties I stayed up late, never ever going to bed before midnight whether I’d work next day or not. I was not just a night owl, I went to bed to the sound of night owls waking after six hours sound sleep.

And since I am at heart a night owl I cannot also be a morning person, since someone who is both is so ridiculously alive that normal people should be allowed stone him in the street. I think I get up so early precisely because I’m not a morning person, because I’m afraid, not just of sleeping it out, but of sleeping it in, out, in, out and sleeping it all about. Because I have this inner fear of waking late one Tuesday morning to find that it’s actually Thursday afternoon, my mind forces me awake, most mornings just before my alarm has gone off.

A non-morning person in the morning is like a non-drinker faced with a yard-of-ale, or a non-intellectual faced with Ulysses, a confused and tortured soul. He wanders into his bathroom, switches on the light without remembering to shut his eyes first, and is jolted by the sound of his pupils hitting the back of his skull. He can’t remember whether the toilet handle goes down or up, can’t remember whether the toilet seat goes down or up (ok, he leaves it up, but that’s just instinct). He can’t remember which way to turn the the shower control to make the water hot (and, though there are only two possible directions, it’s astonishing how often he will choose wrong). He stares at his toothbrush as if it’s a Swiss Army knife, baffled by the fact that it has two ends and having to guess wildly at which end to apply the toothpaste. That’s if he can figure out which of the tubes and jars actually contain toothpaste (important Tinfact: even if you live completely alone, there will always be at least eight jars in your bathroom that you have no recollection of buying, nor any idea what they’re for). It’s important that he gets this right, as a man who cleans his teeth with Sudocream will find that the taste lingers, possibly until the end of time.

He has learned by long experience to wear t-shirts rather pyjama-tops to bed because at that time of the morning he has as much chance of getting a button open as he has of twisting off one of his nipples while wearing boxing gloves.

He will also have learned to leave out his clothes at the end of his bed the night before as he cannot turn on the bedroom light, since his wife is also not a morning person. Trust me on this.

Thus when he leaps springs falls face first out of bed all he has to do it grab the pile of clothes, pick two shoes off the floor and carry them all into the bathroom. How hard can it be?

Well, as this picture from this morning will tell you, harder than you’d think.