Bed-wear.

Here is a comparatively short nugget of thought, product of my insomniac brain. I am sleeping less and less nowadays, and in my furious panicked attempts at slumber, odd things occur to me, usually inspired by the background mumblings of the BBC World Service. Ah, yes the World Service. The station for fishermen, farmers and insomniacs. It is preferable to my other attempts at getting to sleep.

Indeed, it is blissfully painless compared to my attempt the other night: I decided it would be a truly excellent idea to do leg-crippling lunges around my room in a circle to Al Green, at half past two in the morning. Whilst it succeeded in giving my legs a strangely dull ache, sleep did not come quickly. Now, two days on, I am partially crippled. I am unable to walk downstairs without gripping to the banister for support, and unable to sit down in a chair without crying out in pain. And dancing, I found out last night, is a whole new world of pain. Bobbing like a lemming is definitely the new dance trend, according to me. It is also the least painful, when your thighs scream in protest at the prospect of stairs and burn as if on fire every time you attempt to sit down.

But I digress, once again. I am sat here twiddling my thumbs at half past one in the morning, and a memory has sprung to mind. This memory was of going to bed with a hat on, inside a house. A place of apparent shelter. I have only done it once, and I never intend to do it again, unless I happen to be camping (contrived poverty) on the side of Ben Nevis in mid-winter.

And what occurred to me as I lay there, attempting to devise a means of stopping the wind ripping through the rotting window frame. It was solely this:


Let's see. Coat, jumper, dressing gown, jumper, jumper, hat. I'm practically naked.