NIGHT SHIFT
I remember when bedtime was optional – a self-imposed self-preservation deadline entirely flexible depending on how interested I was in a film/box set/test match/12th pint. These days, with two small children to herd, it’s more of a non-negotiable cut off, the point at which important neuro functions start shutting down one after the other – speech, brain activity, muscle control – until the only thing you’re capable of is crawling into bed and dribbling into your pillow.
Right now, I’m way past my bedtime. I’ve got that grit behind the eyelids, the lights around me are distorting into long-exposure streaks and I’m starting to fantasise about 50-tog duvets and a cup of hot cocoa. It’s a sad state of affairs, I know. It’s 11.30pm. Luckily, I have adrenalin on tap, measured little shots of it whenever my brain gets foggy or my mind wanders, and the dispenser is a scruffy size nine trainer. Nope, not a Daniel Ricciardo-style shoey special, one with my right foot inserted. Twitch it and I sit up a
