Those waves of sleep. Light, deep, REM.
As usual, I swim to the surface of light sleep, gradually becoming aware that, once again, I will be forced to join all those little nocturnal creatures in their wide-awakeness….
04.00: I can’t resist drawing back the curtains, just to see what is going on out there (other half has abandoned ship and decamped to the spare room, too hot, too fidgety and too snorey).
All the lights of Llanelli are below. Interestingly, Asda’s trademark green beacon isn’t shining. I noticed that a few nights ago, too. Cutbacks? Timerswitch?
Maybe they think that people don’t need to be lured to their store by their famous sign at this hour.
04.10: Blinding headache (nothing to do with the 2 glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon I had last night. No, this is frontal-type of headache, just above the eyes).
Lie in bed, too lazy to get up and proactively seek analgesia. Lie on back, front, foetal position. No good, try slow, deep breathing. No good, headache worsens.
04.15: Haul myself out of bed. Put on dressing gown back-to-front and inside-out.
Who cares?
Tip toe downstairs, open kitchen door with trepidation. Good, all clear! No doggy doo, no spiders.
Look inside the medicine cupboard for paracetamol. Nearly implode with silent rage. Three empty packets, someone has kindly left EMPTY PACKETS there, lulling me into a false sense of security when I draw up the shopping list.
I scrabble around, swearing under my breath. Dog looks up at me with an injured expression, am I swearing at him? I smile at his silly, sleepy face.
Aha. I find another packet, hidden behind the plasters/statins/sudocreme/neck supports/wrist supports (well, you never know) and gleefully rip it apart.
There is ONE tablet left. Who could have done that? It’s like offering a thirsty woman half a cup of water. Better than nothing, I suppose.
04.20: Armed with ONE paracetamol and a glass of water, I return upstairs. Stamping on the steps, hoping I WILL disturb the guilty party.
In bedroom, I hunt around in every single bag I own for a matching tablet. Best handbag, overnight bag, holiday bag, work bag, and eventually, after sifting through receipts/sweet wrappers/hankies/women’s things that have come apart and are now covered with fluff, I find a very geriatric packet of paracetamol.
Success! To hell with the Use-By date, this tablet is going down my gob.
04.25: I realise this medication will take at least 30 mins to kick in, so once again, I gaze out of the window.
The sky is not quite as dark now. Silence hangs beautifully upon the darkened garden.. The heady scent of the lilacs directly beneath my window intoxicates me, instantly transporting me back to secret trysts on the way home from spring sixth form dances….I am a teenager again.
Mr Fox slinks his way across the lawn, bold as brass. At this hour, it belongs to him, Lord of Swiss Valley, his domain.
Even Dog acknowledges this, and doesn’t bark. He’s a big devil this fox, almost as big as the dog. Plenty of rich pickings around here, middle class barbecue leftovers when too much middle-price wine has been consumed and the residents have staggered back indoors, too “carefree” to clear up. Plenty of M&S burgers to feast on for Mr Fox, no wonder he is so plump.
He glances up at me, we have an eye-meet, he holds my gaze for a full 5 seconds, before turning tail and making for the fence.
He makes a bid for it, but fails. Too fat!
Tries his luck at the hedge, and disappears like a ginger ghost into the dawn.
Hazy stars still peep out, the promise of a fine day?
04.30: Mr and Mrs Blackbird decide to burst into song. How dare they! I reluctantly close the window. Headache abating, back to bed.
And finally, pleasantly medicated, I sink down into sleep once more.
To read more of Sonia’s work, visit https://ladiesversed.blogspot.com/
