When I was younger I vividly remember struggling to get to sleep in the nights leading up to Christmas. I would lay awake in my bed staring at the luminous stars on my ceiling just longing for the day to come when I could finally unwrap my new Lego pirate ship and toy castle with real working cannons. Now I can't sleep because my head won't TURN OFF ALREADY and my habit of drinking tonnes of coffee to make up for the lack of sleep had the night before is finally catching up with me. This reason for being awake is a lot less fun. Admittedly since being at my parents I have found sleeping a lot easier; perhaps due to how dull a place Hykeham is or because I don't have quite as much work to do as I do normally. I also don't have to wake up in the mornings for a little while, so even if I do struggle initially for kip I can make up the lost hours in a time slot normally dedicated to frantic writing, glugging caffeine and desperately trying to force some sort of breakfast down my throat all at the same time. As much as my body needed such a period of rest I do find myself rather hating it despite it's noticeable benefits.
I'm a lot less angry, for example. People who know me might think, "But Ash, you never seem angry. In fact I often act in a way which would drive most people to murder yet you just laugh it off and make an immature joke about what I said." This is pretty true. But deep down, on the inside, I'm fuming. God if only you could see the things I'm bottling up in my mind just waiting to explode into a mid-life crisis you'd be shaking in your boots.
I'm also eating better, spending less money and saying thank you a lot more in conversation. I imagine this is all due to the previously mentioned rest. But again, as previously mentioned, I can't stand it. I wake up and spend the remaining hours of the afternoon playing Football Manager and discovering that, despite early optimism, Lincoln City are in fact a bit rubbish and no amount of, "Do this for the supporters!" will change that.
When I'm bored of that, which worryingly is taking longer and longer to happen, I sit and watch numerous barely viewable films on TV about the meaning of Christmas or, well, the meaning of Christmas 2. I can feel my mind slowly melting and dribbling out my ears before freezing mid air and smashing into the ground where it sits and glistens in the cheap Christmas lights.
"I used to be your mind, Ash. I used to be clever and have thoughts about interesting things. Now look at me. LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"
It's understandable, then, that this time of year no longer possesses the feeling of intrigue it used to for me. It was, after all, just 3 days before Christmas in 2007 that a really cold and emotionless doctor held up a sample of my urine and said, "Yep, you're probably diabetic."
A day later I spent 5 hours with an overly emotional nurse telling me how "blah blah blah blah."
Maybe I should have recorded that conversation. Then sleep would be no problem what so ever.