Why This Is Hell

So I close down the computer about midnight, perform my ablutions, finally finish Cirque, one last check of a couple of communication sites - notice Sherlock Holmes has a profile on one of them


("Though I disagree with the imposed barriers of sexual orientation and believe that all human interaction is meaningless (my body is transport, nothing else) I have decided to create a profile for myself. If nothing else, it shall be an interesting study on the idiocy of the generic Internet user and shall give me something to laugh over in the rare evenings that I am not busy." What do people spot first: "My piercing green/grey/blue eyes.
My entirely natural ebony tresses.
My colossal height.
My panther-rolling-in-a-cello voice.")

and turn light out.

Tick tick.

Cue cat. Purr purr. Ding Ding. Purr.

2.00am need pee.

2.10am, radio turns off. Hit it to turn it back on. If there were something I wanted to listen to, then I could sleep. They can't decide if a Chinese vase sold for $7m or $70m.

2.30am cat goes out through cat flap.

3.00am cat reappears. Wants to be under covers. Purr purr. Poke poke. I want to go out all day tomorrow. still, I could get six hours sleep.

3.10am, radio turns off. Cat absents herself. Get up. I don't have any cheese (if I have nightmares then at least I'm asleep) so I have a scotch egg.

4.00am cat uses bladder as trampoline. I need the thicker duvet on. Go for pee.

4.10, radio turns off. Clearly making no odds.

8.00 wake. Yes, I sleep through the news. But there are interesting items on after it, and I hear them all. And Ian McMillan on DID. He chooses 4'33" as his single track. Genuis.

9.50 time to get up. I'll be out tonight, but today feels cancelled. I need to be near a bed.

So I am now infinitely more tired than I was twelve hours ago, sleep arriving some point around 4.15, no thanks to the gulls, nor to Tilda, who decided I needed some loving. I've had a run of 2am bedtimes; maybe 1am is too ambitious. I was awoken by the smell of fresh bread - which I'd started in motion some point around 4am.

Still, a productive morning, as kohlrabi soup is underway, I have written another thousand words (seasonally adjusted word count is 71,500, giving an eta of 24 October, a fortnight or so later than before) and I have watched:

( LXXIII: Phase IV (Saul Bass, 1974) )


Totals: 73 (Cinema: 18; DVD: 43; Video: 1; TV: 11)


Meanwhile, is that really all there is on Elgin's Coyote Jones? E.L. Chapman, "Sex, Satire, and Feminism in the Science Fiction of Suzette Haden Elgin"? Lefanu skips over, nothing in On Joanna Russ, not in Demand the Impossible, not Aliens and Others. Odd reviews. Adds to growing to write list.

... that torrential rain would silence the dawn chorus and the little beggars would be sheltering at 4am. Not going TWEET TWEET TWEET

You'd be wrong.

An alien has been staring at me all night.

A few weeks ago I bought a new radio alarm clock because I thought it looked cute - a small silver box, from which shines a large amount of blue light. It also projects the current time onto the wall, using a red LED. Immediate design flaw: when the radio is on it displays the frequency on the front, not the ten. If it's dark enough you can see the LED, but this is a clock for the dark.

But my sleep is now disrupted. Maybe I've over tired. Maybe I've buggered my biorhythms again. Partly it's early dawns. Last week I went to bed with the duvet poking out of its cover a little bit, and woke up with the two entirely separate. I am clearly being a tosser. But I'm sleeping for about an hour, until 2ish, and then fragmented sleep all night. This means it's often gone ten before I'm up (I don't need to be at precise places and times at the moment) and I'm falling asleep in the afternoon.

Last night I saw a little red demon on the ceiling. It must have been something like 4:21 or something like:
. _
/_ / _/ /
/./ /
-

Turned on it's side. As my eyes focused and unfocused, it seemed to move; the four was a hat, the colon blinking eyes, the two legs and body, the one feet; the one becoming a two looked like kicking. And my brain, on the edge of sleep, was clearly animating it.


Waaaaa.

Have to write two lectures. One for Thursday. One for Friday. But someone else must see Friday's as they'll give it too.

Don't get out the pub until 8.45. Didn't want to snub B by leaving as he turned up. Then talked to Pete the Fish. Had offered him my stool as I was on my way out soon. Refused it. Then Professor Bob talked to me. Hey, you listen when Fellows of the RSC and members of Pugwash talk at you. It was about his pension. Again.

( time to go )