So worth losing sleep over

At approximately 2am tomorrow I will be rubbing sleep from my eyes and making my way to the shower in a sleep-induced semi coma after just a few hours catching zzzzs in bed. But it will be so worth it!

I am a self-confessed sleep addict. I love it, I crave it and I hate getting out of bed. A morning person I am not. So why drag myself out of my steaming pit at the same time Milton Keynes revellers will be pouring out of Oceana in an alcohol-inspired stuper? Well, because I have me a flight to catch, that’s why.

Tomorrow morning me and my travel companion – a new addition to my life and definitely a keeper – will be checking onto a flight from Heathrow to New York’s JFK where our four-day adventure begins. And it’s going to be awesome.

We have a packed itinerary, including dinner at The River Café – check out those views! – seats at a New York Rangers game and plenty of down time in Central Park. And the sun is forecast to shine down on us.

One thing I don’t think we’ll get round to though is the Natural History Museum because, having watched Night at the Museum last night, I know I’ll only be disappointed when the exhibits don’t come to life – and I really want to play fetch with T-Rex.

My usual efficient self has been dumbed down this week due to a manic pre-New York schedule and desire to sleep, so tonight is dedicated to packing. I get teased about the endless lists I make – what to pack, chores to get done, work tasks to complete, shopping lists, itinerary etc – but I really can’t speak highly enough of pen and paper when it comes to getting things done.

I can empathise with the 500 Days of Summer character who was labelled “anal girl” when she was younger, ‘cos that’s probably me. But I like to know what’s what. There’s no point rocking up in New York only to find I’ve left my comfy trainers at home and have no idea what I want to see and do. And where is the sense in trekking up and down Manhattan visiting endless tourist attractions that are miles apart? Planning, you see, allows you to make the best use of time.

That’s not to say I don’t like spontaneity  though, I’m all for spur of the moment and surprise, but when time is of the essence, planning pays.

So tonight will be dedicated to a) packing and ticking off the “to do” list, b) making sure home is nice and tidy so we can return next week to a cosy and chore-free haven and c) ordering in a take-away so there are no dirty dishes to contend with. And hopefully I’ll get an early night too.

That said, packing will take me ages, even if I do have a list. For boys it’s easy – jeans, t’shirts, a jumper and a pair of shoes. Add some shaving cream and deodorant and they’re good to go. And their iPhone, passport and wallet will fit snugly in their pocket.

For girls it’s a different story. We have too many clothing items to choose from and need to look stylish at all times. I don’t want to let Carrie Bradshaw and co down now do I? And you need to account for different kinds of weather, low heels for walking, high heels for evening, and a bag small enough to be practical but big enough to hold the essential items – purse, phone, book, magazine, tissues, wet wipes, keys, make-up, passport, travel documents, umbrella, compact mirror etc. It’s a big task. No doubt.

So, my friends, once I’ve zipped and locked my suitcase and put it by the front door in case I forget it – as if!! – then I can let myself get swept away with the excitement. New York, New York here I come. So good they named it twice!

Sorry this blog post is late…

Cripes, I haven’t written a blog post for a couple of weeks! I’ve just been reminded of this fact by my mother who is a regular reader; it means we don’t need to speak on the phone much  ‘cos she already knows what I’ve been up to. So, if there’s anyone else out there wanting to avoid their folks – start a blog is my advice.

Anyhoo, I’ve been swamped with work and writing and I’m still struggling with my sleeping pattern so want to snooze in the middle of the day and don’t feel an eency weeency bit tired at bedtime.  And that’s why I’ve been a bit lax on the blogging front. That said, I’ve penned 70,000 words now and with another weekend writing session pencilled in at the end of this week, my first draft should be ready by the end of the month, hoorah.

It’s now only 17 sleeps until my hollibops in Spain and I am very much in need of a break, some proper sunshine and a chance to re-establish some kind of normal sleeping pattern.

The main reason I want to finish the first draft of my book by July is so that my buddy AJ can read it while we’re away. That way I she can give me instant feedback and I’ll be able to hear her laugh – or not as the case may be – at the funny bits. A few select others have been chosen to cast their eye over it too, my mother not being one of them. She read one of my short stories recently and the only thing she could say about it was that it wasn’t double spaced. Give me strength. Him mum, by the way! (I know she’ll be reading this)

Anyhoo, back to the book. I’m at the stage where I really need to print the damn thing off and read it on paper. My eyes are glazing over with the amount of time I spend at the screen and I want to physically hold my book in my hands so it feels more real. This will in no way be the finished article, but I’ll be the best part of the way there, at least.

So, what else am I gonna do in Spain? Very little, to be honest. I plan on spending the days being horizontal, soaking up the sunshine and occasionally dipping my toe – maybe even my ankles – into the sea. (Obviously I won’t be horizontal for that bit). I am going to set a holiday reading record and try and plough my way through five books in seven days and I may partake in the odd logic problem too.

The evenings will be spent tucking into salted seabass, paella or steak tartare, washed down with white wine spritzers. There may be a few mojitos consumed at Nikki Beach and a spot of shopping in Puerto Banus and that’s just about it. Me and AJ have our little holiday routine and I’m looking forward to starting it. Relaxation is the name of the game and as tempted as I am to take my Macbook Pro with me, the mean machine will be staying at home. No internet? For a whole week? Nooooo.

Now I remember why I live alone

I’ve lived on my own for the best part of six years now. God, that makes me sound old. And people quite often ask if I get lonely. The answer, quite simply, is no.

I’ve become somewhat institutionalised over the years and love having my own space, my own place to curl away and hide. And I was reminded of how much I like living chez moi when I stayed at my mate LJ’s house at the weekend.

She’s just moved into a flat with a workmate who at 21 is almost five years younger than she is. The flat is gorgeous and LJ’s housemate is a tad excitable, understandably so having just moved out of her folk’s place, getting that first taste of real freedom.

So, LJ and I were fast asleep after a sensible and sober evening out. At 3.20am her phone rang and, stirring from her sleep she answered groggily.

“Oh sorry, did I wake you up?” I hear her housemate innocently ask.

Er yes, it’s 3.20am, I thought… but I bit my tongue.

Basically, Little Miss Housemate wanted to bring some guys and gals back to the flat. LJ said this was okay as long as they were quiet, hung up the phone and we both went back to sleep.

Some 20 minutes later and the noise begins. Lads in their 20s cannot keep noise to a minimal level when they are drunk. Fact. But why they insist on switching lights on and off and opening and closing LJ’s bedroom door I have no idea. Tres irritating when you’re trying to reach -and remain- in the land of nod.

After almost an hour of banging, shouting and general tomfoolery – all of which is fine when there aren’t two people trying to sleep next door – LJ had had enough. She stormed out of her room and in no uncertain terms asked her housemate’s guests to leave. Now.

And then there was silence, bliss.

While LJ may have been lying there thinking “what have I done?”, I was lying there thinking “this is why I live alone”.

I’ve no doubt noisy nights like that won’t be a common occurance but it did bring it back to me how valuable a good night’s sleep is and how irritating it can be when you’re prevented from getting one.

Totally addicted to sleep

I’m tired. And I seem to be tired a lot these days. I’m really struggling to re-establish a regular sleeping pattern and the result is late nights, power naps after work and struggling to get out of bed in the mornings. The alarm clock is not my friend.

Take yesterday, for example. Having gone to bed around midnight on Sunday, the alarm clock proved an unwelcome ringing in my ears and I got up at the last possible minute. I already eat breakfast at work to save time and my hair seems to be the latest thing to be neglected in order to save valuable sleeping time.

After a hard day in the office I swam 98 lengths in the pool, nearly fell over when I exited the water ‘cos my legs were so tired, scoffed down some tea and then went to meet the netball girls for a few drinks and a team chat. I was home by 10pm and after checking my emails and making a phone call I could barely keep my little peepers open.

So I retired to the boudoir, removed the day’s smudged mascara, clean my teeth and pulled my PJs off the floor and onto my person and climbed into bed, exhausted.

With the TV on for background noise – I always put the TV on a timer, I don’t like silence – I turn off the lamp and approximately two minutes after closing my eyes… I suddenly feel wide awake. WTF?

So a couple of chapters of my book and a bit of TV-watching later, I drift off. By now it’s past midnight and the early night I so needed and wanted has slipped me by. Needless to say, today was a struggle to emerge from my sleeping pit. Grrrrr.

I seem to crave my next sleep fix and plan my weekends around getting at least one lie-in.  Ironically, I’ve just been sent an email from Sleepmasters, offering “a fantastic opportunity to invest in a good night’s sleep with up to 25 per cent off a new bed.” Have already got comfy bed, I just need to spend more time in it!

The story of the fat finger

I lost a lot of sleep last night so feel a tad bleary-eyed today. My insomnia wasn’t due to having lots on my mind, not being able to get comfy or even the half hour nap I had after work. I couldn’t sleep ‘cos I was in pain.

The middle finger on my right hand is incredibly swollen and incredibly painful; and I realise how ridiculous this sounds as I write about it. I’m not sure what’s going on with it, but it’s fat and red and tender and last night I wanted to chop it off. The pain was constant and when it started throbbing in time with my heart beat I thought I was gonna be sick. How can a swollen finger be so agonising?

I’m a total wuss when it somes to pain. I’m well aware of that. My ankle incident back in January is proof of the pudding. And it reminds me of the time, some years ago, when a ball bounced off my middle finger during volleyball training (it had been hit by a man, I add, and very hard too) and it pushed my knuckle to some place it didn’t want to go.

I muddled on but by the time I got home I pretty much had a club hand, so kept it raised and loaded it with ice. My big concern was – I was working as a newspaper editor at the time – that it was deadline day the next day and my right had would be instrumental in putting the paper to bed on time. I had 13 pages to sub and layout (twice as many as on a normal day) and I couldn’t do it left handed). So I was super stressed.

I went to bed and awoke at 3am in immense pain. My hand was in agony and I could barely move my fingers. So, I did what any girl does when she’s upset, worried or in a spot of bother; I called my mum. At 3am.

I was crying down the phone when she answered half asleep and, in hindsight, realised I’d probably put her in, at best, a mild state of panic. When she found out I’d just hurt my hand at volleyball training she was pretty relieved and remembered what a daft bat I can be when it comes to pain.

She was very good actually, and just told me to get some sleep, call a taxi in the morning and go to casualty before work. Bless her. I didn’t sleep but got out of bed at the crack of dawn and got myself ready for a pre-work trip to A&E. Now, washing your hair when you can’t use your right hand is tricky, and so is wiping your bum.

I ignored mum’s taxi advice and drove one-handed to the hospital. I am very stubborn. I felt a bit of a fraud and half wanted my hand to be broken, just to justify the trip to casualty and the 3am phone call. But no, x-rays revealed no breaks, and the nurse taped my fingers together for support and advised me that it was a bad sprain and I should rest them. A bad sprain? Was that it? Rubbish.

So, deadline day went okay in the end and my readers got their paper on time. It was actually pretty easy to use a mouse with my fingers taped up, although it did take a good week for my knuckle to return to normal size.

I’m not really sure what the point of this blog entry is, except to say I am totally rubbish when it comes to any kind of pain.. and why the hell do I have a fat finger? I’m tempted to stick a needle in it and see if it pops. But I know that would hurt. Gasp.

Peshwari Nuns put spice into fundraiser

Our team name was the Peshwari Nuns, our mission to raise as much money as possible for Cancer Research. And our strategy? Well, that was to sell curry and naan bread at a stall as part of the Relay for Life event being held at Kibworth, Leicestershire, last weekend.

The Relay for Life is a 24-hour sponsored walk,  which the Peshwari Nuns team members tackled in pairs, each assigned a half hour shift of walking and then passing on the baton, or in our case the Holy Cross, to the next pair. And we had to do it dressed in nun’s habits. Tres amusante.

There were all sorts of fancy costumes on show over the weekend-long event – pirates, women with bras on over their tops, the pink leggings brigade and many more. But we stood out by a mile. It made me chuckle when people kept wondering onto the walk track and bumping into my pal Tim, who is 6ft 7ins tall. How can you not notice a giant nun!!!???

Anyway, the curry and naan breads (actually pitta breads but no one noticed) went down a storm and we did a roaring trade most of the day and well into the night. While some manned the stall, others were walking and some tried to get a bit of shut-eye. I had shifts at 12.30pm, 4.30pm, 9pm, 12.30am, 3.30am and 8am and having to set your alarm every few hours, pull on a nun outfit and drag yourself round a misty circuit with sleep in your eyes was a tad on the torturous side. It seemed like the kind of punishment you’d inflict on war enemies. I’m precious about my sleep and kinda lost my sense of humour when, at the stroke of 10am when the 24 hours was over, the DJ guy on stage requested that we all hold hands and skip round the circuit, then run a lap and then listen to a boring speech. Aaarrggghh!

Anyhoo, it was all for a great cause and, not being one to boast, the Peshawri Nuns raised by far the most money – £7,500 in total – by holding a few fundraisers throughout the year including a volleyball tournament, ceilidh, quiz night and coast to coast bike ride. The nearest to us was about £2,000 – not that it was a competition – but we were chuffed with our efforts.

What was nicest about this event was the people I did it with, led by “survivor” Gordon who’s keen to forget his illness and move on. The Peshwari Nuns were a jovial bunch and, even though sleep deprived, managed to smile and joke their way through the whole 24 hours. We may not every eat curry again (I can still smell it) or volunteer for a 24-hour walk again, but it was certainly worth it.

Well done chaps!!!

Bloody hangovers!

I have managed to pretty much waste the whole day today – all because I had a wee bit too much to drink at a party last night. Champers followed by Southern Comfort and coke is not a good combination. Ugh.

I had the best of intentions today: while back in the shire (Shrop-shire, that is) I wanted to raid mum’s fridge before visiting my bezzie mate’s (BM) new flat and heading back to MK to crack on with my diploma assignment. What actually happened was this: woken by ringing phone (BM checking if she had time for a shower before my arrival), clamber out of bed, wipe dried dribble from my chin, throw clothes on and (stupidly) jump in the car for five minute drive to mate’s new flat. I arrived at said flat at 11.30am, didn’t leave until 5pm and even then I didn’t feel well enough for the two hour drive home.

BM had a hangover too so we gave each other sympathy, drank endless cups of tea and made each other laugh hysterically over the most childish of things. We have decided to rename going to the toilet for a number two “emptying yourself”.

During our witty and intellectual conversations BM and I pondered over the evil that is the hangover. Why do they hurt so much these days? I actually feel bruised all over (in part due to manic dancing in nightclub no doubt, worsened by lack of sleep), dizzy, sick, headache, and just holding a mug of tea to my mouth seemed to require 100 per cent concentration. Trips to the toilet to empty yourself double when you’ve got a hangover – the hangover poo me and BM call it - and you feel like your body is being controlled by someone else.

I still don’t feel normal and even three incredibly unhealthy meals hasn’t made me feel better – bacon and egg sarnie for breakfast, MacDonalds for lunch and Indian takeaway for tea. Not a very healthy day diet wise but Maccy Ds usually do the trick for a hangover. Not today.

If someone could invent a pill that would instantly disolve a hangover they would be a very rich person. I would certainly invest in them!

The morning after the night before

If I had cocktail sticks to hand I’d probably use them to prop my eyes open. Having the works Christmas do on a school night is a bad idea.

The combination of bowling (attempting to look fashionable in the shoes and keep nails intact) a curry, dancing and a lot of alocohol and laughter are the ingredients for a great night out – and it was. But now we’re at work and struggling to concentrate.

The headache can be sorted by popping a few pills and rehydrating with never ending cups of water and the stomach can be settled with a huge coffee and breakfast sarnie from the cafeteria. But the tiredness can only be cured by sleep. And it’s not professional to catch some zzzzs at work.

Today is the sort of day I wish I was curled up at home in front of the fire, and watching one of those Christmassy films on Channel 5 with a mug of hot choc. Bliss. Yes, I knwo I sound like a granny but it’s the hangover talking.

The champagne and nibbles being offered at work at lunchtime just don’t appeal, I’m seriously flagging, and I will be very grateful for my bed this evening - and the fact the Christmas break will begin at 3pm tomorrow.

So, some lessons have been learned. Firstly, that works festive bashes should take place on Friday or Saturday nights; secondly, that alcohol can be consumed in moderation and not like it’s going out of fashion; thirdly, that bowling shoes really are as bad as I thought they were; and fourthly, that my colleagues can bust some pretty cool grooves on the dancefloor.

Sweet dreams – shattered when the alarm goes off!

When I woke up this morning I refused to believe it was 7am and therefore time to get out of bed. Surely I’d only been asleep for a few minutes! And it was still dark outside so it had to be night time? Didn’t it?

Nope, another seven and a bit hours had flown by and it was time to drag myself out of bed and start another day. And it made me wonder if there would ever be a day – just one - when I’ll be able to spring out of bed and not feel tired.

I would so love to be a morning person. To spring out of bed at 6am and go for a jog around the block. To do all my boring household chores so I could enjoy more ‘me time’ after work. To sit and watch the news over breakfast, rather than pouring a bowl of cornflakes down my throat while attempting to dry my hair, pull my socks on and clean my teeth. To have time to actually check whether I’d turned the hair straighteners off, rather than worrying about it all day. One day I will burn the house down, all in the name of straightened locks, I just know it.

But it’s just not me, this getting up at a reasonable hour lark. I can set my alarm for 6am but it just means I will spend an hour snoozing. I leave exactly enough time to shower, get dressed, put make-up on (this is ESSENTIAL – can’t leave the house without in on, it’s not fair to other people)  and wolf down brekkie (although this is occasionally sacrificed for an extra 10 minutes in bed on those even more tired than usual days) and then drive to work.

So anything which doesn’t fit into that routine – replying to a text message, putting a load of washing on, having to fill up with diesel on the way to work or nip to the cashpoint – will make me late. And I really hate being late so it’s a good job I can move quick!

I would be much less stressed if I just got up 15 minutes earlier but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I feel tired and surely the cure for tiredness is more sleep?

Saying that, I could go to bed at 9am and still feel knackered the next morning. Perhaps I’m destined to have big bags under my eyes. Better go now, am feeling a bit tired. Too tired to type in fact. Snore.