Well here we are again on board the old Insomnia Express to Shitty Street, Menopausetown. Come, sit by me – let us talk of hot flushes, night sweats, crazyarse dreams, high blood pressure, imaginary ailments, runaway weight gain, mood swings, brittle nails and free floating anxiety, not to mention the dry skin and umm orifices, for want of a better word.
I loathe and detest this. I’ve run out of podcasts and radio programmes to listen to to help me drift off. I need white noise, it seems.
I could just get up and go to work but a) nobody tends to get married at 2am and b) if for some reason they did, I doubt they’d want a torn faced sweaty insomniac in a Tesco nightie crabbitly pronouncing them married. (I know! It’s mental! Old Lindsey Two Jobs marrying folk! It still amazes me that an idiot like me is allowed to do it. I get really bad imposter syndrome. I basically just go “yadda yadda yadda, by the power of Grayskull I blah blah blah…BOOM – yer married”. It’s a weird thing, innit? Yet it’s such a privilege. Most enjoyable. What a time to be alive. Actually what a time to be awake, never mind alive.
I’ve a craving for something sweet like oh I don’t know a three day old Tesco Finest salted caramel cookie but no wait Tucker (and it’s no coincidence his name rhymes with that word) stole the bag off the kitchen table and ate it while I was bringing in the wheelie bin. Nutella jar and a spoon it is, then. And a podcast. Sleep well. Oh, you ARE? Ah. Just me then. I’m not even jealous. Nuh uh. Not me. No.