Does anyone actually like getting out of bed at 7am on a winter morning?
In London, in December, it’s dark and cold and I went to bed too late. Again.
At 7am my head is thick, I struggle to focus, the bed is warm, and there are too many things to do once I wake up. If only I could have another ten minutes. Twenty minutes. OK, honestly? Three hours.
I’ve said it before, but it’s worth repeating that I am no Sylvia Plath. The idea of writing between 5am and when the rest of the family wakes up fills me with horror. My best writing time is neither early in the morning nor late at night but smack dab in the middle of the afternoon — 4-6pm by preference. Tea time. And yes, a daily delivery of little anchovy and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off would improve my quality of life no end.
When I am completely on my own, I develop a nice sane rhythm. I go to bed long before midnight and don’t mind getting up before ten. Sometimes I even feel well-rested and get lots of work done in the morning. Well, twice.
The problem is that the rest of the family are bad sleepers. They wander around at night lonely as clouds seeking entertainment, solace, conversation. Even if a person has made it perfectly clear on numerous occasions that others should refrain from loud noises at 3am, it doesn’t seem to matter. They knock lamps over in the dark, trip over shoes, make cups of tea. Sigh loudly. Wail with existential despair.
I know it’s worse for them. At least I hope it is.