Cartoons have lied to me all these years. Whenever Tom needed to keep awake all night while hunting Jerry, a pair of cocktail sticks were all that he need to keep his eyes open. When I tried it, I did nothing but skewer flesh. Light is now leaking through a gaping hole in my right eyelid. I'll never get to sleep...
As you might know, I'm mid way through a week long programme designed to change my sleeping hours. Work begins on 'Eye of the Storm 2' at 8am on Monday morning. I need to be ready for the new hours but it is leaving me with the confusion of the truly sleep deprived. It's now midnight and I feel enormously tired when I would normally feel like working. I'll get to bed shortly in the hope that eight o'clock tomorrow morning, I'll be back at this desk full of the usual Madeley spirit and able to do justice to all your excellent comments that I've so far failed to acknowledge with a reply. At the moment, I'm typing this through a matter of trial and error, slapping my hands against the keyboard in the hope that some of this is making sense.
It again makes me wish that I had the sleeping habits of Bill Oddie. The man snoozes through winter and then doesn't take a moment's rest for the remaining nine months of the year. Which reminds me that I saw him tonight on BBC2 getting excited by a colony of ring necked parakeets in the heart of London. The whole thing was pornographic in the extreme and I should have a word with him. Slow motion scenes of bird on bird action left me feeling quite disturbed. Or disturbed because it was actually quite stimulated by Bill's voice over. I don't know which. Should the ornithology not work out for him, I'm sure he'd be a success narrating smutty educational films. I do know that when Judy walked in to find me cooing on the sofa and stroking a cushion, I felt like I'd been caught loitering in that section of the bookshop which carries only books with oiled torsos and biker hats. Which, funnily enough, also happened to me today... I can't understand the rationale that they put authors with surnames WXYZ next to the shelves of erotica. It's getting to the point that a man can't go into a bookshop to purchase some P.G. Wodehouse or Tom Wolfe without looking like he's investing in 'The Wrench Wench: Tales of a Plumber's Mate Volume 7'.
I'm getting to bed. I'm rambling more than usual and I know that I'll probably dream about well-oiled parakeets with big hairy moustaches.