Discombobulated


I’m feeling a little bit wonky today. After getting home late from depressing tapas last night, I was up until after midnight, and then at 5:30 I had to get out of bed to take a call with Tokyo. So as well as working what feel like Singapore hours from London (as well as London hours) I’ve not been maximising the amount of sleep I can get.

I took the train into work a bit later today, which was good, because I avoided some of the crush on the train. I’d put out of my mind the amusing way that in winter, the trains have the heating up full, but everyone is wearing thick coats because of the weather outside, so after a half hour rail journey you’re sweaty and ready to faint from being pressed in against all those other bodies. This morning I avoided that – or at least I didn’t have to stand up for half an hour with my face in somebody’s armpit. The small victories.

When I couldn’t see properly any more, I knew it was time to leave the office. That was about 5; it was already dark outside as I walked back to Charing Cross station. I got home in time to have dinner and bathe the children, and then I had another scheduling clash as I was meant to be on a phone call when I hadn’t got La Serpiente to accept it was bed time. I don’t know how to explain to a two year old that she shouldn’t be trying to breastfeed her teddy bear.

Well, that’s not true.

She was attempting to breastfeed her stuffed owl.

After this, I figured the best thing to do was to get out and go running. It turns out that on four hours’ sleep, I do even worse than after getting off a plane; I managed to run up a hill, down a hill, and then went back indoors and ate stollen, because that’s what true athletes do. Innit?

Now, as the evening draws to a close, I begin to dream of going to bed. Or shouldn’t I be in bed, dreaming of being awake? So many hours, so little time. No, hang on, that’s not right….


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