I have to be up at seven a.m on a Sunday dammit, and I can’t sleep. There was a vague feeling that I hadn’t done something and I realised I hadn’t vomitted a thwat out today. I doubt that’s what’s keeping me awake though. Still, with the computer off it’s a good excuse to stay in bed and use the phone to write.
Perhaps it’s the heat keeping me awake, or maybe the thought of needing to sleep, but twenty years of insomnia tells me otherwise; because it’s always something trivial that staves off the sleep, never anything worldly important.
So I’m wracking the depths of my brain to isolate the source of naggitude, and coming up blanker than Peter Sisson’s soul. Sisson’s scares me; I can never quite decide if he’s the cross between Bjork and an apathetic bulldog, or just a giant hairy egg. I worry that if I ever accidentally smack his bonce with a massive spoon, it’ll crack open and spew out Sisson’s yolk, forcing me to make a newsreader noggin omelette.
I also wonder if his head is somehow incubating a nest of offspring, and that during an intense bulletin about Iran, his face will burst and Television Centre will be overrun by a screaming hoarde of mutant baby Sissons’, snacking on CBBC presenters’ crotches.
This could happen and it’s keeping me awake.
