It’s a thing in my family – we all sleep like the dead.
I love my bed. I love my sleep. There is very little in this world that could keep me from either.
Now, I know that people suffer through insomnia, night terrors, panic attacks, all manner of things which tinker with their sleep, and it must be absolutely appalling. I have no wish to gloat. I’ve just been very lucky – sleep has rarely eluded me. I slept through the hurricane in ’87, which basically went passed my front door, closed my school, and tore up my road.
And it’s not just me. My uncle is just as bad. If not, worse.
My uncle went to a party a few years ago. It was on a Friday night, some distance from his house. He drove up, pudding in hand, and had a little drink. He hadn’t intended to have two, but – one thing and another – he wound up having a couple of drinks. Naturally, he couldn’t drive, but thankfully, the people who were hosting the party had a spare room, and so my uncle stayed the night.
The following morning, the homeowners had decided to go shopping. They had thought to go early, to avoid the madness of Saturday traffic, and they went to wake my uncle. Nothing. They tried tapping on the door. Calling his name. Making him a cup of tea.
Not a sausage.
Time was a-ticking and the homeowners were, by now, convinced, they would hit all the traffic and return to the house some time on Wednesday, if they were lucky. With nothing to do but take the bull by the horns, the man of the house knocked on the spare room door, entered and opened the curtains.
There lay my uncle.
However, having tried and failed to wake him for the better part of half an hour, he realised something quite terrible might have happened.
My uncle awoke to the sight of two burly paramedics, asking him what day it was and who was prime minister. He had to sign a release, because ‘sleepy’ didn’t feel like a good enough reason to go to hospital.
This is rolling around my head today because I missed a dental appointment this morning because I was asleep.