I awoke abruptly at 2.19am feeling like I was being burnt at the stake. When the mirage cleared, it turned out to be Mighty Combustion Man, human incinerator, otherwise known as farm boy.
He has the metabolism of a seagull and I had foolishly increased this inner fire by feeding him Chilli the night before.
I prised myself away to reacquaint myself with last nights fine wine and flopped back into bed just in time to find the cat cleaning its arse on my pillow.
Before I could throw him across the room, I was distracted by the sound of fearful mumbling drifting in from the other end of the house.
Twin one had woken up with the pillow stuck to her head with lashing of snot. I pulled it off quick, like you would a plastic as to not induce much more crying, which sort of worked and returned once more to the comfort of my bed.
The cat had sneaked off, but not before leaving a trail of his furry minging DNA all over my side of the bed. I tried to dust of the pillow but it was no use. My nostrils reacted badly to the cat hair, cutting off my air supply before any stay hairs could infiltrated my brain.
Inwardly threatening the cat with all sorts of horrid deaths, I trudged downstairs to locate some anti histamine and nearly stood in a suspicious looking yellow puddle.
I flipped on the kitchen light to find two guilty faces staring at me from their smelly bed.
It is hard to know who to blame, the incontinent old one, or the young inexperienced one.
I decide life is to short, as are the hours left to sleep and quietly clean the puddle, take a tablet, and return upstairs.
I slide back into the bed with all the grace of a crippled gazelle, sending yet another million hairs into the air, up my nose and down my throat. By this point, I am too stressed to go back to sleep so I decide to read my book instead, which currently is Charlie Brooker’s Dawn of the Dumb, the least appropriate book in the circumstances.
I chortle away at the stupidity of his subjects before an eerie feeling engulfs me and I imagine Mr Brooker hovering above me somewhere like a god on crack watching my suffering and laughing with his biatches. I almost call Jeremy Kyle and sign up for a show.
This brief spell of imaginative paranoia makes me sleepy again, I drift off into a dream in which I am at school, and I have to recite as many words as I can that start with the letter R.
The sudden sound of brakes and clinking awakes me and I realise that the Ghost Milkman is outside.
Legend has it that there is a real life milkman wandering these parts delivering milk in real milk bottles.
I have never seen him, or heard him before, but farm boy, who has lived here all his life, says he exists because his brother has had milk delivered by him for ten years, but I have never seen any evidence of milk bottles, even though I’ve looked.
I haven’t seen a real milkman for nearly 20 years and I am worried that this is a wind up.I am too frightened to look.
Country dark is several shades darker than Suburban dark, which of course means that the possibilities of ghost milkman seem completely plausible in my sleep-deprived state.
When I first moved here, my house had a downstairs bathroom and it took me three weeks to pluck up courage to use it after midnight.
I am overwhelmed by the thought that I am a total twat and get up to have a look at the milkman when an almighty blood-curdling scream pierces my ears.
Footsteps thunder along the hall and the bedroom door is flung open with the force of Satan and twin one stands silhouetted at the foot of the bed. ‘Mummy there is a monster in my bed. His name is curly and he wants toast. I want to sleep with you’.
Before I have a chance to shout ‘piss off curly, mummy needs her sleep’, I am sandwiched between two people who produce levels of heat that rival the sun.
As I lay thinking of ways to harness their energy and sell it to the national grid my mobile goes off.
My fucking mobile is going off and it’s now 4.43am. It beeps repeatedly behind the curtain whilst flashing like a strobe light.
I have finally reached breaking point. Twin one is put back in bed, mobile is turned off, farm boy is wiped down with cold water, Cat is pushed downstairs and I drift off into undisturbed sleep for two and a half hours of bliss before a bastard from Citylink knocks on my door armed with parcels from heaven, or Amazon, depending on your view point.
This of course excites the whole house into being awake and so Saturday begins.
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