The Witching Hour . Whateve

It is 3.30 in the morning and I am sitting up in bed, cross legged writing this because my brain will simply not accept that this is sleep time.I have been sitting here desperately trying to think of small baba tales to entertain you with and all that is doing is to make sleep waft gently away as smoke from a lit cigarette leaves its toxic cloud quietly above your face.

Awhile ago, when I seemed to have lost my voice for writing I saw a crappy Sunday afternoon film - one of those made for TV movies firmly rooted in the rom com genre. It had a happy ending of course but it made me cry and cry. I don't know why, maybe the protagonist's loss of both parents, maybe the death of the little girl's father. Whatever the reason I cried for two days - not subtle gentle tears that slide eloquently down the face but loud whooping tears and snot. And then I realised - I had never really cried for Mum or Dad and exhausting and terrifying as it was it was also like lancing a boil. I slept for another two days and felt as if a burden had been lifted.

To reach the sunlight when one suffers from depression is a scary thing, the black clouds are always there at your back." But oh my dears and oh my friends it is a lovely light ",as Edna St Vincent Millais would say of candle light.

It is however transient and I wish I could sit here now and say that all in the garden is roses and buttercups but it isn't. There are days when I want to die and days when all I want to do is lay down in a darkened room and stop this carousel world for a few brief moments of respite. I understand the frustrations of those of you love me - I get frustrated too and long for normality and certitude. Long to find Pollyanna again and be more like the small baba with all her confidence and love." Maybe this time..."

Famous Blue Raincoat

It's four in the morning....

You know that insomnia is one of things we all think we get from time to time when we have a few nights of bad sleep. The real thing is insidious - it marks itself as a kind of frenetic night time energy where the brain keeps going rather like one is on speed. You are tired but there is no gentle lulling to sleep, no snuggling beneath the covers, venting that deep breath before sleep so blissfully comes. Instead you lie there - stiff - feeling every lump in the mattress, cursing every street light. Or, if you are me, you give into it and write or play Farmville or watch The West Wing for the 20th time.

It wasn't always thus; I remember a time when sleep and I were good friends. Night time and bed time were to be looked forward to, to the passive and peaceful ravelling of the day's cares, enjoying "sore nature's bath".

To those of you still, loyally, read this - any ideas - 'cos the pills aren't working and I am so tired, so very tired. I think the four o'clock I will try hot chocolate and lying still in the dark. And pray that the insidious thoughts of failure, despair and homesickness will take a short lived holiday from my brain.

Insomnia

The hardest thing about living outside a bustling town is the lack of noise. On, we have the occasional urban all to arms with ambulances and fire truck but for the night - it lacks noise. This doesn't mean I want Monaco every day but there is something comforting about a car that passes by in the small hours of the day.

Those of you that know and understand insomnia will be convinced  that routine helps -turn one's room into a place to read and sleep - soften the lighting and make sure the sheets are clean and ironed. A hot milky drink may help: sadly not if you are over 50 - for women it brings on hot flushes and for men it it gives whole meaning to the phrase keep the knees crossed.

i always slept well in Calcutta - the combination of the air conditioner, the durwan downstairs chatting to his pal to pass the night away. I loved howling at the moon at a quarter to four in the morrning, It was never peaceful even then. As we found our way home we would see the truck arriving with the beggars on board ready for another day. Oftentimes we would see them being loaded back up as the evening mist began to fall and the cinemas and the the New Market shut for night. Most of them lived under one of the pylons under Howrah Bridge.. I imagine their masters did well but what choice to the very young have to be children. Sometimes when I can't sleep I see their faces pressed against the car window. It doesn't help at all.

Writing is the one thing that truly helps so now that I am nice and sleepy - goodnight xxx

ps - It won't stop me dreaming about those kids with their arms bent back so that their soft muscles  would deform into a begging injusry, or even the beggars with leprosy - holes where their noses should have been. Or saddest of all the babies doped with opium to stop them crying.

Come to think of it maybe a quiet night counting my blessings is best after all.