Mind Control Experiment

I went to bed around 11, read for a while, then told myself firmly, "I am going to sleep now." I could feel my mind, that moments before had been involved in stirring scenes in ancient Rome (Steven Saylor's Roma Sub Rosa book series, brilliant) begin to still and my body begin to relax.

But hey, I'd forgotten something.

"Not yet!" I said desperately, flailing back to the surface of awakeness and removing glasses and repositioning glass of water and eye mask (it gets awfully bright around 5am) and groping for ear plugs (the blackbird sings extremely loudly and there is a hole in the double-glazing. A bullet hole. That's another story, and another reason why my bedroom isn't very relaxing).

A plump-up of the pillows, then an even firmer, "I am going to sleep now." I woke up at 6am, went to the bathroom, came back and slept till 8.30-ish. Yes, it worked. Tonight I am going to order myself to wake up at 8am. I'll let you know if it works. My mother swore that it did.

One advantage of being self-employed is that you don't have to be on a certain train at a certain time. I don't miss those ghastly journeys with my nose too close to the sweaty armpit of a man's suit that smelt as if an onion-eating rat had died in it, and following a farty bottom up the escalator. I don't miss the crush and the rush, the heart-pounding moments when the London tube stopped in a dark tunnel for what seemed like a week, and the race down the street to get there in time, before the boss decided to do her rounds.

But I do miss the social life. Now, I waste too many hours gabbing on the phone and checking emails (though I did that at work, anyway) and watching wildlife in the garden. Friends ring from a busy office only to hear me say, "I'm looking at a green woodpecker pecking holes in an anthill." I miss the gossip and sharing a bottle of wine in a bar after work, and the talk of who is shagging who. And the thrill of wondering if the new assistant manager might possibly fancy me even if he's a good fifteen years younger... Ah, those heady days.

I have a large, red and disfiguring spot on the end of my nose. Don't tell me it's the wine. I'll tell it to go away and see if it obeys. Though I have a funny feeling that spots are animated by gremlins out to ruin your day - or, worse, your date. And I have blobbed on some Tea Tree cream, so if it goes, mind control might not be the only reason. But hey, who cares so long as it buggers off before Santa auditions me for a job as Rudolph's stand-in?