Sunday, 15 December 2013
Another tale of insomnia woe
Trying to get a good night’s sleep is leaving me exhausted. Where am I going wrong? Well, I’ve only got to look a few inches to my right, and there lays the answer. Literally. Now please don’t think that I’m about to write a blue blog because I’m not! Erotic writing is not my talent. Plus I’m the wrong side of 50. Think slipper socks, PJ’s and bobbly cardigans. The only time I get remotely hot and bothered is when I’m having a hot flush. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.
I’ve always found it hard to get to sleep at night. Ever since I was a little girl I’d lie in bed at night hearing the sounds of the television as my parents watched Van der Valk, humming along to the opening bars of that catchy tune as the titles went up. I’d still be singing away to myself when my parents came up the stairs to go to bed themselves. I look back at school snaps in horror. I was the only kid in the class photo with bags under her eyes.
‘Read a book before you turn out the light,’ a friend advised. So I do. But it’s not easy concentrating on the plot when your husband is lying flat on his back impersonating a farrowing pig. This invariably leads to gentle prodding in an effort to get said husband to turn onto his side thus bringing about a temporary halt to the snoring. However, when I do finally get to sleep I’m invariably awoken at some point by the deafening noise Mr V is once again making. This time politeness is abandoned in favour of a shove and a yelled request. ‘For God’s sake man! You’re driving me crazy!’ But for all the wrong reasons.
‘The secret of a good night’s rest,’ said another well-meaning friend, ‘is to get to sleep before your husband.
‘Yes, but how? I’m not one of those people who crash out as soon as their head hits the pillow.’
‘Have a mug of hot milk before bedtime. It releases dopamine and makes you sleepy.’
So I tried it. And it works! The drawback is that an hour or two later you need to get up and empty your bladder. Whereupon you get back into bed and stare at the ceiling as you once again listen to your husband imitating that farrowing pig.
‘Ear plugs,’ said yet another friend. Sorry, they’re not comfortable.
‘Listen to music.’ Er, no, music keeps me awake.
‘Count sheep.’ Yes, been there and done that. I got bored after 1,624.
Even when I’m being anaesthetised, I seem to take longer to knock out than the average person. I can still remember one blue-gowned chap sticking a needle in my hand and leaning over me.
‘Count backwards from ten.’
So I did. ‘Now what?’ I asked. I remember him looking startled before the drugs finally kicked in.
And why is it that when I do manage to get to sleep for a straight run of three hours without a hot flush or having the duvet pulled off me or receiving a prod in my back to stop me snoring, then the pair of us are hauled out of sleep by the dog creeping in and gassing us out?
Actually the only true way to get a decent night’s sleep is separate beds and preferably in separate bedrooms. Unfortunately, having downsized house, there is no longer a spare room to escape to. Which reminds me.
A man went to the doctor complaining of insomnia. The doctor gave him a thorough examination. After finding absolutely nothing physically wrong with the man, the doctor said, ‘Now listen to me. If you ever expect to cure your insomnia, you must stop taking your troubles to bed with you.’ ‘I know,’ said the man, ‘but I can`t. My wife refuses to sleep alone.’