Good morning readers, I’m back with an ACTUAL blog, not a shameless self-promotion announcing ‘I’ve just been published’. (Although those are always so fun!)  Brace yourselves, but don’t get too comfortable. It could quite possibly lull you off into a sleep before you get to the end of it.  Enjoy! And as always, your comments and feedback are much appreciated. I always reply to everyone and love to get your messages.

Is it just me or are there others out there, who in the prime of our lives, (ahem) continue to love their sleep? I’ve been told by countless others, that as we age, the need for more sleep diminishes. Some of my friends insist that 5 or 6 hours a night is all they need. My jaw drops when I hear this. I mean really? How is that possible?

Okay, I admit, I woke up a little grumpy this morning, as my sleep was disturbed by a text at 6:50 am. It’s Sunday for God’s sake! (Said texter shall remain nameless).

I love my sleep. I used to be a regular napper. You know, go home for lunch and have a 20-minute power nap in the middle of the day. It didn’t matter where, it could have been on the hard wooden floor of my Boston apartment, or the sun-drenched recliner in my back-garden in Santa Barbara, or just curled up on a dirty old chair backstage at a comedy gig venue. I could nap anywhere. It used to regenerate me and give me just the right amount of zing that was needed to revitalize me for the rest of the day.

But lately, the naps have ceased. These days, I power through the day like a manic superhero. So, regardless of what time I go to bed, I simply MUST have my 8 or 9 hours.

I blame the mattress topper. I discovered the lavishness of a mattress topper about two years ago and you know what they say, once you go topper, you’ll just never stop ‘er. (I just made that up). Once you’ve experienced the pure pleasure of nestling warmth when that 4-inch topper wraps herself around you, you will never ever be the same. Your sleep life as you knew it, will be changed forever. Drifting off on a fluffy cloud, a bespoke design of cotton wool and bubbles embraces your entire body. You will never want to leave.  

I am reminded of the Hans Christian Anderson fairy-tale, the Princess and the Pea. The only way the Queen could find out if the princess was a real princess, was to place 20 eiderdowns and 20 mattresses on the bed, underneath which there was a pea. Unfortunately, the princess couldn’t sleep a wink all night as she felt the pea underneath all those layers and awoke black and blue.

It’s safe to say, I’m no princess. You could put a bag of frozen peas under me and my mattress topper and murders could happen all around me. I’d never know.

Which brings me to dreams. YES. A big fat yes. I love to dream. I rarely have nightmares, but I certainly have very strange dreams that often leave me day-dreaming throughout the day in a haze of ‘I wonder if that really happened’-ness. Sometimes for hours.  

And then there’s the sleep talking. I don’t know what I talk about in my sleep, but I’ve been told by a reliable source that my voice is loud and very convincing. Apparently, this is a new revelation over the last few years. It’s been reported that I could persuade even the best of sceptics that it IS in fact important to eat a Cadburys flake on a boat with a bunch of pink lei-wearing friends on our way to the Miss Universe competition where the former World Squash Champion is about to be crowned, and the crown is being presented by a very young version of my father who’s holding an Olympic flame in one hand, crown in the other, and surrounded by a group of Irish dancers performing Riverdance. The dancers being the girls from the local GAA club in Prague. In that very moment, I sound so convincing when I awake fully. I’m still quite adamant that it really happened, and why on earth would anyone question me about such things! It’s best to let me sleep it off…

Then there’s the jerking and twitching – my personal favourite being on an airplane as it’s about to take off. There’s a nice gentleman sitting beside you (who was kind enough to put your unusually heavy pink carry-on suitcase into the overhead locker, before carefully avoiding tripping over your oversized backpack that’s stuffed under your seat). As he sips on his bottle of Perrier, gazing out the window at the glorious sunset, he suddenly gets a whack in his ribs from your bony elbow as you startle-twitch from a dream, grateful that it’s Covid times and you have a mask on so no-one can see your mouth wide open with your tongue hanging out.

I twitch a lot. My former life as a professional squash player is imbedded in my muscle memory. I often lash out with the perfect back-hand volley smash, sending the poor aging cat flying off the bed with a howl that would wake the dead. (But not me).

I do hate to be woken up before it’s time, but there IS a silver lining. Picture this. You are unexpectedly awoken at 6:50 am by a random text, and we KNOW the ding-ding ALWAYS sounds louder than it really is. WTF? It’s Sunday morning, you are annoyingly aroused with a startle, and you lie there absolutely disgusted, the irritation oozing from your body as your partner tries not to chuckle. You are trying to ignore the fact that your bladder is knocking on your stomach, giggling away at you, knowing that you don’t want to get up, but insisting that you go to the loo and provide relief. 

That was me this morning. God, it’s such a far walk to the bathroom. At least 8 feet. I laid there contemplating if it could wait? I rearranged myself, lay on my side, thinking who the fuck was texting at this hour, someone better be dead. (I don’t really mean that). I tossed and turned a little bit more but oh no, there’s my bladder now guffawing in my face, prodding my nether regions to the point where I couldn’t take it any longer.

After staggering slowly across the corridor, gingerly holding onto the narrow metal banister with one eye open, hoping there wasn’t a stray cat nearby to trip me up, I sat down on the cold ceramic seat, and release. Ahhhh. It’s a good nice slow release, and even after it’s finished, I was tempted to sit there and nod off. It’s another 8 feet back to the bedroom.  But then I know my mattress topper is there waiting for me to come back. Beckoning me with her imaginary lush fields of sunflowers. She lures me back to have the SECOND SLEEP. Now THAT is the silver lining to being awoken from dream-land.

Is it not the best? This is the sleep where I have those vivid dreams about Elvis and my Nana meeting up in Lourdes for a chat. It’s the final hour or two when you realize you still have time! You drift off into that snuggle-embraced, anaesthetised state where your body is floating above the world. It’s as if you’re being lifted up by cherubs, nuzzling your drool-ridden cheeks with their baby fat thighs and feet, massaging you gently into the best slumber you’ll ever have.

It is now 7:45 am on Sunday morning. As I finish this piece, I remember I don’t need to be up for another hour. I’m really glad I’m not a princess as I lounge back here on my darling mattress topper. On that note my friends, it’s time for my second sle…

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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