Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) (10 page)

Pretty soon they’re all at it, a collection of strident high-pitched warbling, set at just the right tone to drill into my brain.

And the little gits never sing the same tune.
Oh no
.

It’s always a discordant set of musical phrases overlapping one another, ending up as an incoherent jumble.

For the sake of variety in the orchestra, a wood pigeon starts a low monotonous hoot that wouldn’t be too bad if it was timed at regular intervals. It’s not though. Just as I think I’ve got the rhythm - a hoot every five seconds or so – he’ll change to once every seven, then every two, then every ten.

Bastard
!

I’ve tried earplugs.

They either fall out after ten minutes or prod my eardrum when I roll over on the pillow, giving me earache.

Wanking doesn’t help much either.

It’s supposed to leave you drained and ready for sleep, but all it tends to do is make me sweaty, cross-eyed and still
wide awake
.

Thankfully, I only go through short periods of insomnia.

Maybe a month here, a couple of months there - not a constant thing.

If it was, I’m sure I’d be locked up in an asylum by now, twitching and chasing birds around the asylum garden with a look of hatred on my face.

There are a million and one home made remedies for the condition, none of which work.

Countless over the counter medicines are available as well that seem to have equal levels of failure. These are different from the home made stuff, because they’re useless
and
contain lots of horrendous chemicals that won’t help you fall asleep, but will probably make your hair fall out.

Here’s something I never understand about sleeping pills. Invariably, written somewhere on the box or in the instructions is this:

Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery.

What a fascinatingly redundant thing to put on a bottle of pills designed to make you fall asleep.

I can’t think of anyone who’s thought:

‘Here I am, about to drive this enormous truck through a complicated oil refinery, where the slightest of prangs could lead to an explosion that would wipe out half of Dorset. I think I’ll take a couple of Sleepy-aid pills to keep me going.’

Some of the most terrifying reading you can ever do is to scan the instructions in medicines - even the apparently harmless ones. It’s enough to give anyone a heart attack as you read about possible side effects:

Nausea, vomiting, skin rashes, diarrhoea, spasms, blindness, deafness, leprosy and rickets.

…yeah, I think I’ll just put up with the mild head cold actually, it sounds a much safer bet than popping aspirin into my mouth.

I even saw death described as a side-effect in something.

Death
!? Death isn’t a bloody side-effect!

How miserable a disease do you have to catch for death to be a more pleasant alternative?

Between the list of horrifying side-effects and the fact they don’t work, I avoid sleeping remedies like the plague.

Therefore, I suffer in silence, until the period of stress and insomnia passes and a more normal sleeping routine re-asserts itself.

Without the experience of sleepless nights, I’d really be struggling by this time to write anything coherent. Lucky then that it’s not too much of a trial for me to write through the night - otherwise this book would only qualify as a short story and I’d be half blind from sleep depravation by now.

Sometimes it’s hard to make people appreciate the seriousness of insomnia. Explaining your condition to those who have never experienced it is a real trial. It’s especially difficult when you’re dealing with someone who can fall asleep at the drop of a hat and can’t sympathise at all.

I’ve had a few conversations with people who think that I’m
overdoing it a bit
and
can’t really be feeling all that bad
.

After all, it’s only a few hours kip I’m missing. I’m not ill or anything, am I?

Grrrr.

My wife was always the type of person who could nod off quickly and never appreciated the misery I was in. I’ll give her credit though, she never complained when I paced the floor at four am and never told me to pull myself out of it in a condescending manner.

That’s the nasty thing about insomnia.

It’s a psychological condition and there are some people out there who believe all such maladies are easily solved if the sufferer just
pulls up their socks and deals with the problem.

These people need to be roasted slowly at about two hundred degrees and served with new potatoes in my opinion.

If you’re lucky enough to be a sound sleeper and an insomniac crosses your path, try to be as sympathetic as possible and believe them when they say life has become a living hell. If not, you’re likely to have your arm ripped out and be beaten to death with the soggy end.

Just a friendly warning.

If you’re unlucky enough to be like me, then the only piece of advice I can give is to examine what’s happening in your day to day life. Chances are it’s having an effect on your ability to drop off and you may need to address any issues you have before the insomnia will pack its bags and leave you feeling like a human being again.

There was a client at my firm - one of the nicer ones - who ran an art gallery. He confided in me over a liquid lunch one day that he went through a period of insomnia for two years -
non-stop
.

It nearly cost him his marriage, did cost him his job and made him seek psychiatric help.  He told me that every night since he has offered a small prayer to God in thanks for the uninterrupted seven hours he gets.

My admiration of the man knows no bounds.

I’ve been afflicted with sleeping disorders all my life. Before the insomnia came along, I used to suffer with sleep-walking when I was a boy. This isn’t as bad when it comes to your well-being. After all, you may be vertical instead of horizontal, but at least you are asleep and getting some kind of rest - even if it’s not exactly of a high quality.

Most of my sleep-walking activities were confined to walking around the house and bumping into the furniture. There was one occasion when - according to my mother - I thought I was Batman and she found me in the living room at four in the morning attempting to climb onto the side-board.     

She said it was dreadfully disconcerting to walk in and see me hunkered down over the fruit bowl, calling her The Joker in a gruff voice and throwing Batarangs (or rather bananas) at her from my lofty perch.

You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve been sleeping fine for the past few weeks and even the birds outside have been unable to disturb me. I’m sure they’re extremely annoyed by this and are getting their revenge by crapping on my BMW.

4.52 am

21954 Words

Slurp.

Coffee. The insomniac’s best friend.

I guess one reason why I’ve suffered insomnia in the past is because I travel a lot. There’s nothing more guaranteed to muck up your body clock than changing times zones every few hours and giving yourself a good dose of jet-lag.

I still find it endlessly fascinating - and a bit weird - that I can leave Gatwick airport on a Monday morning, travel for twenty four hours and arrive in Sydney in the middle of the night the following Wednesday… or something along those lines anyway.

I’ve been to lots of places over the years. Sometimes on holiday with family or friends, sometimes for work - and one occasion just to get away from everything for a week on my own.

Exploring new countries, meeting new people and misinterpreting strange local customs is very entertaining.

I even enjoy the process of travelling itself, from the moment I leave my house with a heavy suitcase, to the time I walk into my air-conditioned hotel room halfway across the other side of the world - tired but happy to be somewhere where it isn’t raining and overcast.

There’s something very romantic about stepping out of your front door in the morning and being in another country by the time evening rolls around.

The reality is often not as much fun as the fantasy, but I’ll get to that in a minute…

Even when I’ve been pretty skint, I’ve usually managed to scrape the money together for a cheap break in Europe, or a long weekend with friends in Dublin.

I’m one of those people afflicted with terribly itchy feet.

It only takes about four months of living in England before I start looking out of the nearest window, wondering what the weather’s like in Quebec this time of year.

In fact, as I write this, there’s a large pile of holiday brochures sitting in the corner.

If you get bored with our little chat, by all means take a nose through and see if you can spot any bargains.

I’m after a couple of cheap weeks in the Caribbean. If you find one, just tap me on the shoulder and show me, could you?

Thanks awfully.

Travelling isn’t always fun. The romantic ideal often gives way to cold, hard reality in the blink of an eye.

Here are two very important things to remember for anyone travelling by plane in the near future:

Exit row
and
bulkhead seats.

These are the ones just behind the exit doors, or before the bulkhead on a plane. The bigger the plane, the more exit doors and the more bulkhead seats.

They are a gift from God for one very important reason:
Space
.

You’re likely to get more than enough leg room if you’re lucky enough to get a bulkhead seat to sit in. This will prevent you having your knees cramped for the nine hour trip to Florida you’re about to embark on.

I learned the lesson of the bulkhead some years ago when I took a trip out to Las Vegas, the tackiest place on earth.

My cousin James was getting married and had decided on a stag night in the gambling capital of the world. It was designed as a blow-out of epic proportions. An entire week of drunken debauchery, scantily clad women and amateurish gambling.

James and five friends had flown out on Sunday evening direct from Gatwick to Vegas. I, on the other hand, had to fly out on Wednesday, not having enough annual leave to take the whole week off.

In my infinite wisdom, I elected to find the cheapest flight I could and chose an indirect one that would see me stopping off in the cultural Mecca of Minneapolis, Minnesota.

This turned out to be a mistake of
Herculean
proportions.

The trip started well enough.

I’d booked a taxi to take me to the airport and it arrived on time at 5.00am - when the wood pigeon was in full song. The drive was OK, with the cabbie only asking me stupid questions once every half an hour or so. He didn’t get much of a reply, as I sat in the back dozing, with my head resting snugly on my flight bag.

Getting through check-in and boarding was also a smooth process, though I did have to waste a couple of hours in the shopping mall while they re-fuelled the bird.

I even went into The Gadget Shop on the main concourse to have a look around, which tells you how bored I was. I also had a look in Tie Rack, which really is just a shop full of ties. I have no idea how they stay in business. The world must be full of forgetful businessmen who can’t dress themselves properly.

With enough time sufficiently wasted, I made a bee-line for the gate and joined the queue at security.

I did my best to not look like a drugs dealer and managed to get through with only a few suspicious glances from the customs officials.

Things went pretty smoothly from there and I wound up boarding in good time.

I hadn’t heard of the magical bulkhead or exit row seat, so when I got onto the plane I found myself in a standard one, between a pleasant elderly American woman and an officious looking British man.

The plane took off and I settled back in my seat, looking forward to seeing strippers and drinking cheap American lager by the gallon.

…an hour goes by.

I start to feel the confines of my surroundings.

My knees are jammed up against the seat in front. I’m unable to put my arms on the rests because my fellow travellers have already claimed them. My bottom is starting to turn into marshmallow and my ears are getting blocked by cabin pressure.

In short, I'm not a happy bunny.

A further mind-bending hour goes by and I’m starting to climb the walls. The in-flight movie has started and it’s got Jennifer Aniston in it.

The fact I’ve not had a cigarette in over three hours is not helping and I’ve only had two hours sleep in the last twenty four. There’s no option for me to take a little nap here, as I’ve never been able to sleep on planes and was going through a period of insomnia at the time anyway.

No such problems for the friendly elderly American woman sitting next to me. One minute she’s awake and laughing at Aniston, the next she’s snoring like a buzz-saw. I turn to the guy on my right to share a comment about this, but he's now three chapters into a John Grisham and ignoring me completely.

Another hour goes by.

The buzz-saw becomes a chainsaw and I’m wishing I was dead.

Just when I think it couldn’t get any worse, the old biddy starts to gently slide toward me.

Her head touches my shoulder and now I’m frozen in place.

I know I should politely wake her up and inform her of her invasion of my personal space - or at least give her a dig in the ribs. Unfortunately I’m British, so I sit there immobile, not wishing to be rude and wake her up from whatever pleasant dream she might be having.

I'm now in desperate need of a piss.

This presents two fundamental problems:

I have to wake up sleepy head and push past the Grisham reader.

Twenty minutes go by while I wait for an opportune moment.